Some Rise By Sin
by flaurelcasfino
Summary: Frank Delfino deals in lies and secrets and shady misdeeds. His job is to uncover the truth and often this role takes him to back alleys, seedy motels and places where there are few souls worth saving. Luckily, nothing Frank's seen has ever stopped him from getting the job done. That is, until he meets 'Lola', a young stripper with pale blue eyes who seems to know who he is. S1 AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Full Summary:** Frank Delfino deals in lies and secrets and shady misdeeds. His job is to uncover the truth and help Annalise win cases by whatever means necessary, and often this role takes him to back alleys, seedy motels and places where there are few souls worth saving. Luckily, that's not a problem for Frank. Nothing he's seen has ever stopped him from getting the job done.

That is, until he meets 'Lola', a young stripper with enchanting blue eyes…

An S1 AU in which Frank and Laurel meet in less than ideal circumstances.

 **Author's Note:** Okay so I was re-watching season 1 and this idea kind of popped into my mind. It is essentially an AU version of episode 1x01 which tells a different story of how Laurel might have become a member of the K5 if she had a different background and different circumstances than in canon. I've taken some creative license but it does actually stick pretty close to canon and follows 1x01 very closely. It's probably only a few steps away from being total crack fic and it's a bit weird but please just go with me and I promise flaurel fluff and a classic murder case in the style of S1 HTGAWM. If that makes sense and you're still going to read this story then kudos to you. And if you like it then please leave a review for me :)

It's the same routine every year.

Annalise scares the new freshmen witless with her questions, calling them out by name, grilling them as good as she would a hostile witness. Frank sits at the side of the room with Bonnie, the two of them diligently playing the good little stooges though they've seen it all before, year after year. Frank scans the crowd for a likely hook-up, thinks to himself that the students have never looked so young before. How long will it be, he wonders, until he stops himself from doing this? Some of these girls have got to be approaching a whole decade younger than him now. Then again, he reasons, sometimes that's what makes the sex so damn good.

"Frank." Bonnie's low voice is a warning, like a caution to a dog.

He shoots her a side-eye and a charming smile. "What?"

She merely rolls her eyes in response, lets him know that she's so on to him.

Frank chuckles and looks away again, eyes finding a lean pair of pale legs that seem to go on forever before disappearing under a short skirt that Frank imagines sliding his hands underneath and…

The sound of his name being called snaps him out of his dangerous daydream.

"…Frank and Bonnie. They know me better than I know myself so use them well."

That's their cue so they stand, Frank gives his usual spiel about stupid questions – he hates having to field the idiotic students and their ridiculous queries – and then redirects to Bonnie.

And that's the introductory lecture to Criminal Law 100 over for another year, thank God.

Frank and Bonnie wait while Annalise wipes the board clean and the students clear out, tails between their legs and fear on their faces. Once the three of them are alone, Annalise approaches her colleagues. "Where are we at on the Dryden case?"

"I'm meeting with his wife at 12 to go through her questions for the stand," Bonnie replies.

"Frank?" Annalise asks without looking up from a file she's flicking through. "The alibi?"

"I've got a lead, I'm looking into it this afternoon."

Annalise finally looks up at him, meets his eye. She assesses him for a moment, silently acknowledges that his lead was probably not acquired legally and then nods, dismisses him, doesn't want to know more than she has to. "Great, I'll see you both later, then."

And that's that. This is what Frank does. Frank Delfino deals in lies and secrets and shady misdeeds. His job is to uncover the truth and help Annalise win cases by whatever means necessary, and often this role takes him to back alleys, seedy motels and places where there are few souls worth saving. Luckily, that's not a problem for Frank. He has his connections formed over years in juvie, and then in jail, and now it's just second nature to get the information he needs to get his job done.

That is why, a few hours later, Frank parks up a few blocks away from the most infamous strip joint in town in hunt of Richard Dryden's alibi.

Richard Dryden is a new client of theirs. He's a professor of biology at Middleton, a well-respected man, a man whose record is squeaky-clean. Or whose record _was_ squeaky-clean. Now, he is about to go on trial for murder. A few months earlier, a friend of Dryden's had been found stabbed to death. The police investigation later found that this friend had been sleeping with Richard's wife, providing him with a motive. Then, police found a receipt in Dryden's car; he had purchased a butcher's knife the day before the murder. It had looked shut and dry to Frank but God knows Annalise likes a challenge and so she had taken on the case. Now, Dryden's entire case seemed to hinge on Frank's task of obtaining the alibi.

From day one, Richard had insisted – swore on his mother's grave – that he had an alibi for the night of the murder. The only problem had been getting that alibi out of him; he hadn't wanted his wife to know where he'd been. When he had finally broken the day before, Frank had had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at what a cliché alibi Dryden had been protecting.

As he gets out of the car and begins walking to the non-descript building, Frank wishes the alibi had been something – anything – else. He's visited many depressing places in his lifetime but none, he thinks, come close to the few times he has had to frequent a strip club in the middle of the day. The Pink Flamingo is just as grim as he'd expected for mid-afternoon on a Tuesday. Thumping music plays through a loud speaker and the club is empty apart from a couple of dirty, old men staring stupidly at a scantily-clad girl. Frank watches the blonde for a moment too long before approaching the bouncer.

"I'm here to see Mr Parks," he says.

"Appointment?" the bouncer grunts at him.

"Sure. Tell him Kevin's here to see him, he's expecting me."

The bouncer nods and disappears behind a red curtain for a short moment before he reappears and gestures for Frank to go through.

Frank ducks behind the curtain, follows the dank corridor to an office where he finds the middle-aged man he's had a handful of dealings with in the last few years.

"Kev, good to see ya'," the man greets with a toothy grin. "What can I do for ya' this time?"

"I spoke to you on the phone the other day," Frank responds, sticking his hands deep in his pockets. "I need to talk to Lola."

Mr Parks laughs, nods knowingly. "Ah, yes. Our new girl. She's a beauty tha' 'un."

"You told me she'd be here now. Is she?"

"She might be…"

Frank sighs, realises what the man is waiting for. He digs in his pocket and withdraws his wallet, hands over the two hundred bucks he'd taken out for this exchange. "Is she here?"

"She sure is. I'll take you to a private room now and she'll join you shortly."

Frank follows the other man down the corridor and into a private room, its only contents a large red chaise-long and a single table with a bowl of condoms on top. Mr Parks says his farewells and then leaves Frank alone, awaiting Lola.

They have an agreement, Frank and Mr Parks. For a fee, Mr Parks will tell him which of his clients have slept with which of his girls and then allow Frank to question the girl in a private room. It works because they both maintain a high level of discretion. Mr Parks knows that his real name isn't Kevin, as Frank knows that Mr Parks is an alias, as well. But they operate a don't ask, don't tell policy and it works. And besides, sometimes Frank gets more than just answers in his private rooms.

It's been a while, though, since he's needed to come here. But Dryden named this girl, Lola, as his alibi, so Frank needs to convince the girl to take the stand and tell the judge and jury that she was with Dryden that night if they're going to win this case. Sometimes this is easier said than done.

Frank waits. He chooses to stand; as appealing as the chaise-long appears, Frank's not sure he wants to sit, knowing what he does about what goes on in these rooms.

After a few moments, the door opens and the new girl – the beautiful one – enters, pulling the door shut behind her.

Frank can't help himself; his eyes drop to take in the girl's body. Her breasts are contained in a red lacy bra, real, he thinks, the breasts she was born with; the flat planes of her stomach look soft, delicate, inviting; matching red panties barely leave anything to the imagination; and her legs… her legs go on for days, weeks, years… stretch down to where her feet are held in red stilettos, the sexiest shoe known to man.

He bites his lip to contain a groan.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" the girl asks, her voice quiet but confident, and the sound of it goes right through him.

Frank takes a deep breath, shakes his arousal aside; he's here for business first. Then… well, that's for later. "Yes." He looks up at the girl's face; her head is down, eyes on the floor, face obscured by a mass of dark, wavy hair. Playing the quiet submissive. "I need to talk to you."

Her head lifts at that. "Talk?" Then, her eyes meet his and they are pale blue, glass-clear water, striking and remarkable. When she sees him, her mouth opens slightly, and a breath falls from her lips as her eyes widen with surprise. "No." She turns away. "No, I don't want to talk to you."

But Frank reaches out, grabs her wrist before she can run away. He pulls the girl back to him, turns on the charm. "Just for a few minutes, beautiful."

She looks at him, dark eyebrows drawn into a glare and fire in her eyes. But, beneath the fire, is recognition, and Frank ponders this for a moment, wonders where he's met her before for her to know him so instantly. So he asks, "Do I know you?"

The girl purses her lips, hesitates, and then shakes her head. "No. Clearly you've never seen me before in your life."

Frank sighs, doesn't know why she's being so difficult. "Look, I've paid for my time, you just gotta talk to me for a couple minutes, 'kay? An' then I'll tip you, I'll make it worth your while."

Lola doesn't respond so Frank continues. "I need to talk to you about a man called Richard Dryden." He reaches into his back pocket and takes out a photograph, a mugshot. "He may have used a different name when he came to see you, but he was one of your first clients here, according to your boss." Frank passes the image to the girl. "He claims to have been with you for three hours on the night of July 2nd. It was a Thursday. Can you back up his story?"

She stares at the photo for a moment and then those cutting eyes flick back to his face. She looks agitated now, annoyed. "Yes," she says, but her voice is clipped, "but I know why you're here and I'm not going to take the stand."

Frank's surprised at her words; few of the strippers he's met can put two and two together that fast, even the smart ones. "You do know me, then," he observes. "You know what I do."

"I don't know Mr Dryden outside of that one night, which he paid me for; I don't care what happens to him. I'm not helping you."

Frank stares her down. "So… what was it? Did we sleep together? Hook up at a bar? Look, I'm sorry if I never called you, I'm just not that kinda guy."

The girl scoffs. "I can assure you I have never slept with you, and I certainly never will."

Frank objects to that. His grip tightens on her wrist. "Look, I'm payin' for this time with you. I can do what I want and if I wanted you to sleep with me, then you would fuckin' sleep with me and, trust me, you'd like it, too. Lucky for you, that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to get an alibi for Mr Dryden. So give me what I need or face the consequences."

She laughs once, soullessly, sarcastically. Seemingly ignoring the increasing pressure on her wrist, the girl leans in, goes toe-to-toe with Frank and narrows her eyes. "You're a misogynistic ass," she murmurs darkly, and, in that moment, she looks surprisingly menacing for such a small girl. Then, she kicks him sharply in the shin, the toe of her shoe hurting more than Frank cares to admit. It shocks him for a moment and his grip on her wrist loosens just enough for her to pull herself free and get to the door. She turns back to look at him for a moment. "If you paid the least bit more attention to peoples' faces, then you'd know exactly why I can't help you. So screw you and your case, _Frank_ ," she spits his name and then she yanks the door opens and leaves Frank alone in the private room, without an alibi and without a clue about what just happened.

It's not until much later on that he remembers that he never told the girl his real name.

First thing the next morning, and after a whole host of inappropriate dreams about Lola, Frank meets Annalise at the prison where Dryden is being held. The evidence against him is too water-tight for him to meet the high bail the judge set so they can only meet here.

"Tell me you have good news," she snaps the second she sees him.

Frank sighs and his lack of immediate confirmation tells Annalise all she needs to know.

"Nothing?" She stares at him in disbelief. "What am I going to tell my client?"

"Look, I'm workin' on it. I just need a bit more time to convince the kid to take the stand."

"But she confirmed the alibi?"

Frank nods.

"Great," Annalise mutters and her sarcastic tone is out of step with her words. "At least we know he's telling the truth." She walks off towards the door, waits to be buzzed in and then follows the guard through, heels clacking noisily.

Frank strides after her, pace quick. "What? I thought you said you knew he was innocent."

"I suspected, Frank," she replies sharply. "I never know. And it hardly matters. I took his case because he's a friend and I needed a challenge. I get bored."

Frustrated, Frank grits his teeth but wisely says nothing.

When they get to the private room, Richard is already waiting for them, a level of hope clear in his eyes that makes Frank nervous. He looks, Frank thinks, like every other well-off, middle-aged, white man does when they first encounter any kind of trouble: surprisingly frail, overweight but like his body is hanging on his skeleton, an un-ironed outfit draped on a coat hanger.

"So?" Dryden asks immediately, hands straining at the cuffs. "Am I gonna be okay? Can I go?"

Annalise shoots Frank a look that he can clearly read as 'this is what your useless ass makes me do', and then sits opposite their client. Frank quietly sits beside her.

"Richard," Annalise starts softly, "we are doing everything we can but we're not out of the woods just yet. My associate Bonnie is prepping your wife to take the stand as a character witness, and Frank here is still working on your alibi…"

The man's urgent attention turns to Frank. "Did you find her? Lola?"

Frank knows better than to answer him.

"Mr Dryden-" Annalise starts.

"Stop with that, Annalise. It's Richard."

"Richard. We are working on your alibi as we speak."

"So you haven't found her then?"

"I didn't say that, Richard."

His head falls into his hands. "But you said that this – my alibi – this is what will save me. You said you needed it." He lifts his eyes to look between them. "I'm not stupid, I get it. I've got a motive, I've got access to the murder weapon, but I swear I didn't do this. That's why I gave you my alibi. I… This could ruin me, Annalise. If they found out that I was with that girl."

"If who found out?"

"Middleton." He hesitates and then adds, "She's a student."

Annalise frowns. "The stripper's your student?"

"Not _my_ student, I don't think, but a student at the university for sure, I saw her on campus. I could get fired. My wife would almost certainly leave me…" He stops, looks alarmed. "Have you told her? Have you told Mandy where I was?"

Annalise shakes her head. "Not yet. If we get the alibi ironed out, then we'll have to tell her so it's not a shock when she hears it on the stand."

Richard sighs, nods, absorbs. Then he clears his throat and his voice is quiet when he speaks, "The point is, I'm risking a lot telling you about this." He looks at Frank, eyes desperate and urges him, "Please, please find her. You gotta come through with this."

"Mr Dryden," Annalise says, automatically returning to more formal address, "we will do everything in our power to get your alibi ready for trial. If we don't then we will find another way. Don't worry; I won't let you go away for a crime you didn't commit."

When they're outside the prison, Annalise turns to Frank. "You've got to get that girl to testify." She digs in her purse, pulls out her cell.

"I will, I'll go back now an'…"

But Annalise is shaking her head even as she types furiously on her cell phone. "You have to go later."

"Why?"

"I took on a new case. Our new client is coming to the house in an hour to tell us her version of events, her witness statement, and I need you to be there."

This confuses Frank because usually Annalise can handle this kind of thing alone. "What d'you need me for?"

"All the 1Ls are coming to hear her story and come up with a defence."

Frank can't hold back his groan. "Again?"

Annalise shrugs. "Saves me from doing all the heavy lifting for once." She raises her eyebrows at Frank, and the implication is clear. Then she stalks off, leaving Frank determined to prove that he can do the heavy lifting, too.

He calls Mr Parks on the way to the Keating house, but has no luck.

"Sorry, Kevin, she's not here."

"How much?" Frank demands. "How much to get her in?"

"It don't work that way. She comes when she comes." The man chuckles at the double entendre.

"Can you give me a phone number?"

"You know I can't."

"I'll pay you. What d'you need? Three? Four?"

Mr Parks hums on the other end. "Make it six. Bring me six hundred by the end of the day and I'll give you the number I have on record. No guarantee it's her real number though, I ain't tried it yet."

"That's fine. I'll come this evening." He hangs up the line and then pinches the bridge of his nose. Damn stupid stripper girl. The chances that it will be a fake number are as high as the cost of getting the number, but Frank knows he's got to try something. And besides, if they win Dryden's case, the legal fees will more than cover it.

An hour later, the house is chaos. There are naïve, idealistic students all over the place, chattering about the case and full of misplaced enthusiasm. Frank fucking hates it.

"I fuckin' hate this," he mutters to Bonnie as he watches a typical frat boy boast about some of the cases he's seen his judge father preside over.

She smirks at him. "I know." Then she shrugs. "But at least they'll come up with a plan for us."

Internally, Frank rolls his eyes at how easily Bonnie laps up Annalise's bullshit. "Yeah, if they don't all fuckin' suck."

Bonnie just cocks her head in a gesture that shows her indifference.

When the doorbell sounds, Bonnie leaves to answer it, ushering the client in through the throngs of students to the strategically-placed seat in the middle of the room. Frank had read her file as he ate his lunch; some secretary accused of attempted murder because she supposedly gave her boss medication he's allergic to. He's seen it a million times before, knows exactly how Annalise is going to play the case without having to listen to these children make up their own far-fetched strategies.

Just as Annalise is explaining how it's going to work, the doorbell sounds again. Hoping it's some sales pitch he can pretend to be interested in to get him out of this shit, Frank hurries to answer it.

But it's not a sales rep.

On the doorstep of the Keating house stands a girl, a head shorter than Frank with dark wavy hair framing her face. She looks up to meet him and her eyes are morning fog, they are cloudy ice water, they are pale blue, and they are shockingly familiar.

Frank's heart drops into his stomach and his mind spins out of control, wondering how this mysterious girl has managed to find him and what does she want from him if she won't fucking testify?

He opens his mouth to say something – though he really isn't sure what – but she beats him to it.

"Hi, sorry I'm late." She looks him directly in the eye, stands tall and firm. "I'm here for the client consult."

Frank stares dumbly at her, the pieces falling into place. "You're a 1L?"

"Yes." The girl nods, raises her eyebrows sharply. "Are you gonna let me in?"


	2. Chapter 2

Throughout the briefing, Frank can't keep his eyes off the girl. She's leaning against the doorframe on the opposite side of the room to him (he deliberately went around so he could watch her face) and her gaze hasn't drifted to him once. He's not sure whether he should feel pleased or offended.

She's attentive, curious. She focuses intently on what the client is saying, takes copious notes. She's conscientious, serious, determined. He can see it in the set of her dark eyebrows and the way the edges of her lips are downturned when she writes, concentrating. Frank watches her lips for a moment and feels his dick twitch and start to come to life as he remembers vivid dreams of those lips wrapped around his cock, those eyes watching him longingly.

He sighs and looks away, looks at the client for a moment. She wrings her hands together nervously. She's crying but it doesn't ring true. It takes Frank less than a minute to surmise that she's probably guilty, and it makes him smirk at the earnest faces of the 1Ls as their little brains whir trying to come up with a solution that simply doesn't exist. Frank knows that there is never a real and honest solution, just what you can cobble together to form a defense, but he always finds it entertaining watching the kids work that out.

Eventually, Frank can sense things wrapping up and he moves to hover in the hallway, hiding in the shadows under the stairs. He watches the students pile out, some chatting in sombre voices, some raring to get started and others appearing a bit shell-shocked; they're the ones that won't last the year. Finally, he sees her, walking alone and checking over her notes. It's almost too easy to corner her.

"What-" she starts when she feels his fingers wrap around her arm but when she turns and sees Frank's face, she stops and her expression morphs to one of frustration.

He pulls her out of the throng of oncoming students. "I need to talk to you."

"No thanks."

Frank shoots her a level stare. "It wasn't a question." He tugs her arm and, at first, she resists but when it becomes clear that's she's not going to win this battle of strength she follows him. He opens the door under the stairs and pulls her into the basement with him, closing the door behind them. They stand at the top of the stairs like it's the edge of a precipice.

The only sound for a few moments is their quiet breaths, mingling together in the small space between them. Frank is still holding her arm. When he notices this, he drops it as if the simple touch is a white-hot flame.

"This is where you knew me from," he starts. "The Cr-"

"Criminal Law lecture," she finishes for him with a nod, her voice laced with sarcastic humor. "Yep. You were trying to look up my skirt the whole time, and I never forget a pervert."

At the reminder of the smooth, pale legs he'd observed just the day before, Frank's eyes drop but he's disappointed to see that she's covered them with formal black pants today. When he returns his gaze to her face, she looks smug. Rather than acknowledge his blatant attraction to her, Frank plows ahead with his line of questioning. "You know you won't get in trouble for testifying, right? Dryden ain't your professor an' it's not like you're in a relationship with the guy so…"

The girl's brow furrows and her revealing eyes spark with anger again. "You think that's why I won't do it? So I won't get in trouble? I'm not stupid, I know the rules and I know I'm not breaking them."

Frank's confused. "Then… why not?"

"I'm a _law student_. I've given everything I have to be here – as you've clearly seen. Do you think I want all of the other students to know how I afford these fees? Do you think I _want_ to be 'that girl'? That I want everyone to know who I am, what I do?" Her voice has been rising and she takes a breath to calm down and bring the volume back to a whisper. "If I go up on that stand and testify to sleeping with a professor, I'll be a whore. If I testify to being _an actual whore_ then I'll be a whore. This is a lose-lose situation for me. If I go up there and tell the truth, I'll just be 'Lola, the showgirl' for the rest of my career. That's why I won't do it."

Despite her sobering confession, Frank can't help but crack a smile. "Lola the showgirl? Like the song?"

Her eyes cut back to his face. "Well, I was hardly going to use my real name, was I?"

"Which is?"

She glares at him, but the power behind it is gone. "You seem to be the detective on this case, you work it out."

Frank stares at her for a moment. He pushes aside the urge to flirt with the girl and considers her reasoning. Usually, he wouldn't give a shit, he'd find a way to get her on that stand. Whether it's through threat, blackmail or, as a last and expensive resort, bribing. But something about this girl makes him want to help her, not hurt her. So he nods, releasing the breath he hadn't realised he was holding with a sigh. "You won't even be an anonymous witness?"

"We both know the court will only grant anonymity if the witness is putting themselves in danger by testifying. It's in the sixth amendment."

He shrugs. "We can bend the rules sometimes, with the right story."

The girl scoffs. "Because that would make your client look innocent. His only alibi is too afraid to show their face in court."

"It would have to be the right story," Frank allows, tamping down his frustration at the girl's diligent knowledge of the law.

"Well even if that did work, I can't risk it, with that nosey lot potentially poking through the files."

"It'd be confidential, no one would find out."

The girl sniffs at that. "Sure. Because no one ever gets past you and your biceps to the confidential files."

"So Dryden goes down for murder? Even though he's innocent."

For the first time, Frank sees an emotion that isn't fury or hatred flicker across the girl's increasingly-familiar face. It almost looks like regret. "I'm sure Professor Keating will figure something out. That's what she does, right?" She smiles wryly. "Don't tell me I'm stripping my way through college for a professor that can't actually do her job after all."

Frank smiles again, holds back an almost-laugh. She's funny, this girl. A little morbid, sure, but there's a sense of humour in there all the same. "Well, she has help," he quips in reply. "Me and my biceps aren't just here for decoration, you know."

The girl rolls her eyes. "I'm going now."

Frank stops her from opening the door, warns her silently with his eyes that they shouldn't be caught hiding alone together. He cracks the door open, checks Annalise isn't hovering and then lets the girl go. But she hesitates before she heads for the front door, turns back to him and, when she speaks, her voice is so quiet that Frank has to strain to hear it. "Please don't tell Professor Keating about this."

It's a small sentence but one that, for the first time, seems to put Frank in the position of power within their strange little dynamic. And, again, he feels that urge to give this mysterious girl whatever she asks for. "I can't promise anythin', but I'll try an' find another way."

She doesn't look entirely happy with that, but she nods, and then heads for the door. He watches her as she leaves, but 'Lola' doesn't look back.

Later that night, long after Bonnie has gone, Frank is still flipping through files at his desk, waiting.

Eventually, Annalise pokes her head in. "I'm going to bed," she tells him. "Sam's waiting."

"Okay," he replies, "I'm just finishing up here an' then I'll head out."

She observes him for a moment. "Working on Dryden's alibi?"

He sighs. "Tryin'a."

Annalise frowns and comes fully into the room, sits on his desk. "You've got to get that alibi, Frank. He supposedly bought the murder weapon, has a motive and no alibi. I've got no other way to argue this case."

"No other suspects?"

She shrugs. "None that make sense. The victim wasn't married or seeing anyone. No local family and all of his other friends have alibis. It just doesn't add up."

"Well, you did say you wanted a challenge."

Annalise shakes her head at him but there's a small smile on her face. "Just… convince her. I don't care what you've got to do, but she's got to testify."

Frank nods, but his stomach is full of dread.

"Go home, get some rest and go at it again tomorrow," Annalise advises.

"Yeah," Frank says, "yeah, I will do."

"Okay." Annalise stands up and heads for the door. "Don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

Frank just gives her a salute, and then looks back to the paper in front of him. He stares, unseeing, at the letters, and waits until he can't hear the clicks of her shoes on the stairs anymore.

Then, Frank creeps into Annalise's office, opens her laptop, types in the password he'd figured out months ago but had never had a need for until today, and then he's in. Quickly, he opens up the register for the 1L Criminal Law class and starts his search. He clicks on the first feminine-sounding name, finds their student profile and studies the photo before moving onto the next one. Systematic, strategic. Frank hopes that Lola's real surname doesn't start with Z but he will look all night if he has to.

Luckily, he doesn't have to search for long. He hits the jackpot with the first surname beginning with C, her Middleton ID photograph coming to life in front of him, those blue eyes flashing with fire, spirit, humour.

"Gotcha," he mutters, grabbing a pen and paper and writing down the minimal details he has in front of him. "Laurel Castillo."

Frank doesn't get much sleep that night. Instead, he returns to his apartment, pours himself a generous whisky and harnesses the power of Google to find out as much as he can about his new acquaintance. But with each new snippet of information he uncovers, the more his curiosity grows.

Born in Mexico but living in Florida, Laurel Castillo is the daughter of a wealthy businessman who deals in tech, software and gadgets. Frank finds pages and pages on her father, Jorge's, accomplishments but next to nothing on the girl herself. But if her father is so wealthy, why does the girl need to sell her body to pay for her law degree?

Frank finds some social media but it's locked down, privacy settings impenetrable. It doesn't look like there's an awful lot there to find anyway.

Turning his target to Jorge as the information is easier to source, Frank finds that he's famous within his field, hailed as revolutionary and ahead of his time. He has two sons and two daughters, of whom Laurel is the youngest. Her brothers seem to have followed in their father's footsteps and achieved success in the technological field, while her sister, Vanessa, has a wide open social media boasting photographs of chubby-cheeked boys and poolside cosmopolitans that make Frank assume a nanny took the prior photos. Frank wonders why Laurel doesn't seem to want this same kept lifestyle, assumes it would be easier than whoring herself out for a law degree.

He looks back to Jorge, find that he's on his second marriage, estranged from his first wife (and, Frank presumes, Laurel's mom) and that he's cited her mental health as the leading reason. Is Laurel crazy like her mom? Or does she have mommy issues and need the attention, the intimacy, that solicited sex would bring?

But then, Frank wonders, if that's the case, why had she so resolutely refused to sleep with him? He's a neglected daughter's dream, makes a killing in Philly's bars picking up girls with ghosts in their eyes.

But Lola… Laurel… there's no ghost in her eyes. Just steel strength and unbreakable determination.

The girl is an enigma wrapped in lace panties, that's for damn sure.

At three in the morning, Frank changes tact and reaches for his phone. He dials a number that's becoming more familiar than Frank would like.

"Hello?"

"Parks? It's F… Kevin."

"Kevin, you ain't been round with the dough yet."

"Is she there?"

"Not tonight, no."

Frank nods thoughtfully. "Great. I'll be over with the money shortly."

He stops off at two separate ATMs on his way back to the club, withdraws $300 at each from his own personal bank account. Then he's back in the club, though the interior is alive this time. Seductive music seems to make the floor vibrate and there are about nine girls floating about in their underwear, trying to coerce an unsuspecting man into a private (and expensive) dance.

Frank dodges them, eventually spots the boss at the bar and makes his way over. He taps the man's leather-clad broad shoulder. "I gotta talk to you."

Parks meets his eye and nods, a wry smile on his face. He downs the last of his drink and then leads the way back to his office. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," he says once they're alone. "What's so special 'bout this one?"

Frank doesn't answer, just chucks the brown takeout bag at him. "There's six in there, as discussed."

The other man nods but Frank isn't surprised when he takes it out and counts it himself. Satisfied, he turns to his computer and pulls up a database. "Here." He gestures at the screen.

Frank steps up, sees her name highlighted on the screen: Lola Hernandez. Frank can't help but roll his eyes at the surname, the most common surname in Mexico and likely intended to maximise her anonymity. He takes his phone out and creates a new entry under her pseudonym, tapping the number out, and then turns back to Parks. "Thanks."

"Thank you." He shrugs. "Jus' don't come running to me if it don't work. I did warn you."

"I know." All the way home, the cell feels like it's burning a hole in Frank's pocket. He gets back to his couch, opens up the entry and stares at the digits. He so badly wants to call it but he doesn't have the faintest clue what he'd say. He has no need to call her, Frank knows that. He knows exactly where to find her, knows who she is and knows why she won't testify. He knows she won't change her mind.

But Laurel Castillo didn't have a phone number listed on her student profile.

Getting this number may be a colossal waste of his own money, his time, his energy. But, for the first time, Frank feels like he's got some kind of upper hand. And… well, he wanted her number.

The next morning, Frank wakes with a roaring headache to an irritating, faint bleeping sound. It takes him a while to realise that he's passed out on the couch, his cell has died, and his backup alarm is blaring from his bedroom. "Shit." Late is never a good look for an employee who wants a favor.

He calls Annalise.

"Tell me something good." She picks up on the second ring.

"Can I come to the meeting with the wife this afternoon?"

Annalise groans. "Why? Can't you all just do your jobs without holding my hand? What, you gonna need me to start wiping your nose for you, too?"

Frank lets her griping roll off his back. "Look, I'm makin' progress," he half-lies. "I've got the girl's contact details, I know where to find her. I just wanna come up with a new angle to persuade her to take the stand."

"Richard's wife is coming to the house at 4pm. If you can get the paperwork for the Kauffman case filed and delivered to the courthouse before then, you're in. But Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't screw this up." She doesn't wait for a response before hanging up.

It's a big demand. Annalise had done all of the paperwork for the new Kauffman case the day before, but there's a lot of it given that their client, Gina, had fired their previous lawyer so late in the process. Frank's aware that the trial is due to go to court in just a few days so sorting the paperwork is of tantamount importance and he doesn't have long to get it done. But he'll try because he desperately wants to hear what Dryden's wife has to say; he needs to find another defense for Dryden because his usual charm and wit doesn't seem to have any impact on Laurel Castillo. And Frank is surprised to find that this realization is disappointing.

He pushes the possibilities of why he feels that way out of his mind and begins his preparations for a busy day ahead.

"You look like shit," Bonnie tells him frankly when he walks past her desk with only minutes to spare until the 4pm deadline of Dryden's wife arriving at the house.

"Fuck you, too," he mutters.

"Which student is it keeping you up this time? There was a skinny blond who couldn't take her eyes off you, she'd be just your type. Or was it the quiet one you were staring at the other day?"

He's going to argue, but the doorbell cuts him off. Bonnie cocks an eyebrow at him and then heads off to answer it.

Moments later, they're all sitting in Annalise's office, Dryden's wife, Miranda, across from them. She's a fragile-looking lady, eyes watery and worry lines etched into her skin as if with permanent marker. Grey roots are plain to see seeping into her dark hair and it's clear that her husband's arrest has been taking its toll on her.

"Now, Mrs Dryden," Annalise says gently, "we're going to go over your answers to my questions again like Bonnie did with you the other day, and then we'll talk about what the prosecution is likely to say and what your answers should be. Let me know if it becomes too much for you at any point, okay?"

The woman nods anxiously, looks at Annalise with desperation, like she's about to sit an exam and Annalise knows all of the answers but just won't tell her what they are.

It goes pretty much as Frank had expected it would. She's a character witness so she speaks for Richard's character. He has lots of friends and has never gotten so much as a speeding ticket, he's an upstanding citizen. She says what a good husband and father he's been. He's dedicated to their family, works hard to provide for them.

But that doesn't sit right with Frank. He gestures to Annalise with a tip of his head and she excuses herself, leaves the room with him.

"What?" she demands.

"She's saying what a good family man he is an' then we're gonna blow that all out of the water when we bring up a prostitute as his alibi. That surely ain't gonna sit right with the jury?"

Annalise glares at him. "Do you think I'm an idiot? I know that, Frank. Let me do my job." She turns her back on him and goes back in and he has no choice but to follow with his tail between his legs.

Mrs Dryden is midway through a story about how Richard once took her on a surprise vacation to Hawaii for a landmark birthday, tears in her eyes, when Annalise retakes her seat and interrupts. "Mrs Dryden. Where was your husband the night that Mr Reed was killed?"

Miranda blinks, surprised by the interruption. "Um… he was working. He was still at Middleton, doing some paperwork."

"Was he with anyone?"

"Well, no. You said he doesn't have anyone to corroborate his alibi?"

"We lied, Miranda. And so did Richard. He wasn't at work, he was at a strip club having a private session with one of their girls."

The fragile woman stares at Annalise. "No. No, he was at work." She looks down at her lap and her voice breaks. "He told me exactly what he'd been doing. He told me about the paper he'd been grading and he was complaining about how the girl had learnt nothing in his class… he… he was at work…"

Annalise leans across the desk, puts on her best apology face. "I'm sorry, Miranda, but he wasn't. We have found the girl in question and she has confirmed that she was with him that night."

Frank watches as she breaks down in front of them, heaving sobs breaking free from her chest. Her head falls into her hands and she visibly tremors. Bonnie presents a box of tissues that makes Frank think that she knew exactly what Annalise was going to say in this meeting. If only he'd had the same warning.

Annalise waits for a few moments and then says quietly, "I know this is a blow for you, but this is a good thing, Mrs Dryden. Richard has an alibi; he didn't kill Mr Reed."

The woman sniffs, takes a tissue. "He was… sleeping with her? This girl?"

"Yes, he was. But we will still need you to testify. Richard will need all of the help he can get as the evidence against him will be convincing and the word of a prostitute isn't always seen as being reliable. We'll just need to change what you say so that it doesn't contradict…"

"I can't do this right now. Please." Fresh tears spill down the woman's cheeks and she squeezes her eyes shut.

Annalise nods. "Okay. We can reschedule another time."

Miranda stands immediately and leaves as though she can't wait to be out of the room. Bonnie follows after her.

Frank turns to Annalise. "Why did you tell her? He asked you not to."

Annalise shrugs. "She was going to find out anyway."

"But the kid ain't agreed to testify yet."

Frank is met with an icy stare. "Then you'd better get her on board, hadn't you? She's a girl, Frank, a desperate little girl. It shouldn't be hard for you to find something that'll convince her to take that stand. Be creative." With that, Annalise opens up her laptop and Frank is effectively dismissed.

He returns to his own desk, sits in the squeaky swivel chair and stares up at the ceiling, feeling uncharacteristically useless. He's no attorney, he doesn't even have a degree; he's here because his job is to get things done and now he can't even do that.

"Existential crisis?" Bonnie asks as she returns, noting his demeanour.

"Somethin' like that," Frank replies.

"Annalise told me you can't get the girl to testify. Why not?"

"She doesn't want to reveal herself as a stripper," he says, matter-of-fact. "Would you?"

"You don't usually have a problem persuading girls like that," she remarks, ignoring his question.

Frank rolls his eyes. "Look, you keep harpin' on at me about this, you're gonna hurt my feelings. You're slut shamin' me, Bon."

Bonnie laughs, but then Frank sits bolt upright, inspiration suddenly hitting. "What?"

"Nothin'." Frank waves her off but he grabs his coat off the back of his chair. "Tell Annalise I won't be back 'til tomorrow."

Bonnie's protests follow him down the corridor, but he's too focussed to hear what she says. He knows what he's got to do.

Unwilling to go through Parks again, Frank has had to bide his time.

A few hours later, he's sitting at the bar in the club he's been frequenting more often than the dirty old men he'd been judging so harshly just a few days earlier. The red-haired girl he'd approached when he'd first arrived comes over to him again as he finishes off another whisky.

"You sure you want to wait for Lola?" she asks for the third time that evening. "I promise I can do everything she can." She pauses and winks suggestively. "Maybe even some things she can't."

"I'm sure," he reinforces. "You can get me another drink, though."

She smiles and shakes her head. "Sure thing, sweetie."

He turns from the bar, looks towards the red curtain at exactly the right moment. The material parts and she steps through the curtain, scantily-clad and sexy as ever and Frank feels more than ready to do what has to be done.

He abandons the bar and his request for another drink and heads straight over. She sees him coming but, thankfully, doesn't try to run. She just seems to ready herself for another onslaught as he approaches and when he's close enough to hear her over the music, she speaks first. "I'm not going to talk to you again. I've said all that I need to say."

Frank just reaches out, takes her hand and pushes a wad of dollar bills into her palm. "I'm not here to talk."

She starts to laugh but then she sees his expression. "You're serious?"

Frank just looks at her expectantly.

Lola – no, Laurel looks up at him, eyes slightly wide with surprise. "No. I said no."

Frank sighs, expecting as much after her vehement rejection last time he'd been here. "Look, aside from the fact that it is literally your job, I haven't said anything to Professor Keating. I'm trying my hardest to solve my case without involving you. I'm gonna keep your secret. Don't you think you owe me?"

"I…" For a moment she seems lost for words. "I can't, it would be inappropriate. You're my professor. I can recommend someone else, though?"

Frank shakes his head. "I'm not a professor. I'm not even a lawyer."

She looks confused at that. "You're not?"

"I'm not employed by Middleton; I'm employed by Annalise. I'm her assistant. Now, are you going to take me to a private room to do somethin' about this blatant chemistry or are we going to stand here and make small talk all evenin'?" He looks her up and down appreciatively, making it clear which option he'd prefer.

Tonight she's wearing midnight blue, a colour Frank thinks compliments her skin tone even better than the red did. Her lace panties hold up suspenders which, on her legs, Frank thinks are the sexiest things he's ever seen. He reluctantly tears his eyes away from her body and up to her face. Her sharp eyes are observing him closely and the air around them is suddenly thinner and full of electricity, just waiting to send off sparks. "No talking?"

"Trust me, I'm not here to think about Richard Dryden."

"This is my job," she says slowly. "You're paying me for this."

"I know."

"I don't want you."

"I know."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"I won't."

Laurel stares at him for a long moment and Frank worries that, again, his flirting has failed him with this girl. But then she nods slowly. Then, she smiles. It's a wide, welcoming smile, full of seduction and promise. "Fine," she finally consents, "let's go."

Frank knows that she's fully in character now, confident and assured. He realizes that his time here will be spent with Lola, not Laurel. Which is a shame because he really wants to get to know the real girl, but at the same time, he's not here to make friends. So he pushes away all thoughts of his ulterior motives and the resulting guilt he feels gnawing at him, and he grins back at her, echoes her words. "Let's go."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks so much for reading this craziness! If you can spare the time and take a second to leave a review and let me know if you like the direction this is going in, it would be much appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here comes the smut… if you're not into that you might want to skip the middle part of this chapter. But, you know, if you put these two alone in a room together, what else is going to happen?**

* * *

Once they are inside a private room, the dated red décor hitting Frank square in the face, she crosses the room ahead of him and finds a secret closet in the wall. She opens it, stashes her cash and then turns to him.

"You're serious about this?"

"Course," he tells her, charming smirk on, arrogant nonchalance turned up to the max. "I've seen you almost naked. I know what I want."

She rolls her eyes, his charms apparently a currency that's not accepted here. For a moment, blue meets blue and they simply observe each other, like spitting cats assessing and calculating their next move.

Frank doesn't look away from her gaze when he utters his next sentence. "I found you."

"Oh?" Her tone is casual but the way she drops her eyes tells Frank that she knows exactly what he means.

"Laurel Castillo. You graduated from Brown top of your class."

Laurel Castillo's eyes flicker back to him unwillingly. "So you can use a computer," she remarks dryly. "Do you want me to congratulate you?"

"Jus' lettin' you know."

"Yeah, well. That's not who I am here," she says, careful to keep her voice devoid of feeling.

Frank walks past her, shrugs off his jacket and sits on the red couch. He reaches up, loosens his tie. "No, you're not. You're Lola. L-O-L-A, Lola."

She smirks at that. "You know that song's about a transvestite."

"And yet you still chose the name. Laurel not stripper enough for you?" His tone is indifferent, casual, but, inside, Frank is thrilled that she's playing along, despite her protestation. That she's letting Laurel stick around for just a bit longer before transforming into her alter-ego, slipping on her second skin.

"Something like that."

"Why're you doin' this?" Frank spits out, finally asking the question that's been intriguing him the most. "You an' I both know that you don't need this job, so why are you sellin' yourself like this?"

She glares. "You say that like it's so dirty. You ever think maybe I just like having sex? That it's empowering that men like you pay hundreds just to see this?" She gestures to her body.

Frank shrugs. "There are better ways to get sex. Less demeanin'."

"What, like hook up with you in a bar? Only for you not to call the next day?" she quips, raises an eyebrow, throws his words back at him from their first meeting.

"I ain't apologizing, that's who I am. But your dad's loaded, Laurel. Ain't he payin' your tuition?"

Any light-heartedness that existed in her teasing falls away instantly, as though he's thrown a cold bucket of reality right over her head and extinguished the tiny flame of humour. "That's none of your business. You're my client."

He clutches his chest dramatically. "Ouch, you wound me. I thought we were really gettin' to know each other. Friends, maybe."

The cupid's bow of her lips almost disappears completely as she presses them together and crosses her arms across her chest. Frank notices that her arms are beginning to pebble with goosebumps.

"He paid for your brothers' fees, didn't he? And your sister's wedding." Frank raises his eyebrows at her. "An' your sister's divorce an' second wedding an' all."

The girl sighs and turns slightly, angles away from him "I thought you weren't here to talk?"

"Not about Richard Dryden. Talkin' about you, however…"

"Is off limits," she says flatly. "I told you, that's not who I am. Not here."

"I'm just try'na figure you out."

"So you can use it against me."

"So I can help you."

She laughs once and then comes and sits beside him on the chaise longue. "Right."

Frank watches her for a moment. He tries to ignore the sexy underwear, the confidence she projects, to see what's underneath. And underneath he thinks he might see something he could really like, but she only reveals it in tiny glimpses, stolen insights. He casts aside the reason he's here and decides to offer an olive branch to the girl. "Look, I know you feel like you're alone here, but you're not. I ain't no shoulder to cry on but I can get shit done. If you're in trouble, I can sort you out. Annalise, too."

Laurel snorts. "I'm sure Professor Keating has more pressing and lucrative cases than a hard-up whore."

"Don't say that about yourself."

"Whore is only a dirty word if you make it one, Frank."

"Oh no, I meant the hard-up part. You're a full-blooded MAP, own it." He grins at her, tries to lighten the mood, and feels his spirit soar when one side of her lips quirks up slightly.

She rolls her eyes. "I don't know whether to be surprised or impressed that you even know that term."

"Be both," Frank tells her with a wink.

Then, suddenly, miraculously, fantastically, she laughs. It's a tiny, breathy, unfeeling thing, but it's a laugh all the same. "You're ridiculous," she says.

"Or ridiculously into you," he replies, turning his body towards her, catching and holding her gaze. He hears her breath catch in her throat and come out in a stuttered series of gasps and the delicate sounds shoot through him, light his bones like live wires. Frank knows how to turn it on when he needs to seduce someone, but here he hardly has to try at all. He can't tell himself he doesn't want her anymore because it's plain to see that he does; he really does. If it's not obvious in his gaze and flirtatious banter, it's apparent in the tightening of his pants, the stirring in his groin, like he's a compass and she's his magnetic north.

The most bizarre thing is that she hasn't looked away yet. She's smart, this girl. Smart enough to see right through him, realize his true motivations and kick him out on his ass. But either she hasn't noticed yet or she's choosing not to.

"I didn't come to be nosey," he whispers, and his voice is embarrassingly hoarse. "I promise. I just… want you."

"You and the rest of Philadelphia," she returns but the wit is gone from her tone. She's trying to keep him on his toes but her low voice gives her away: she's almost as into this as he is.

Encouraged, Frank leans in. Closer. His gaze drops to her lips. The tip of her tongue darts out, wets her bottom lip, makes him want her more. He can smell her, perfume and crisp vanilla. But Frank knows that this girl is far from vanilla. She leans in, too, entranced.

The moment their lips meet, it's not like fireworks or explosions or any of those clichés. It's like a winter morning; everything is silent, still, unbroken. Frank tries to commandeer her, take control but he can't. She's controlling the motion; she's the rock and he's the river, moving around her, taking the path she forms, flowing and forming around her. They surge against each other, both too powerful to let up, matching strength with strength.

Then, all of a sudden and all too soon, she pulls away. Her fingers rise to her lips as though she's shocked at their betrayal.

"Laurel…" Frank starts, voice quiet.

"No," she cuts him off harshly. "I'm not Laurel here. And I don't kiss clients."

"Laurel…" he says again.

"I will throw you out," she warns, "if you cannot follow the rules."

Frank watches her for a moment, assesses her seriousness. "Fine," he relents. He stands, unbuttons his vest and pulls it off, tugs his shirt over his head to reveal planes of rippling muscles that he has no shame in showing off. He goes over to the little table, empties his pockets so nothing gets in the way. Sets his phone carefully on its side, propped up. Grabs a couple of condoms from the bowl there almost as an afterthought. Then he continues: "I've given you three hundred bucks. What _do_ you do?"

"Come back over here and I'll show you."

He does as she says and returns to sit on the chaise longue. Almost like she's going through the motions, she stands, straddles him. Frank watches as Laurel's eyes dip down to check out his abs and then travel back up to his face. She appears a little ashamed to have noticed his body and corrects her gaze, becomes business-like again. Becomes Lola again. "I mean it," she says, and Frank's not sure what she means until she adds in that same distanced, cold tone: "This means nothing."

"Sure," he agrees.

Finally, she lets him touch her, drawing his hands in with her own so that they're resting on her hips, palms brushing the elastic of her lace panties. Her breasts are in his face, hidden behind padded, lacy cups. His first move is to snake his hands up the smooth skin of her bare back and unhook the clasp in one skilled motion. She raises her eyebrows at him, unsure whether to be impressed or disgusted. He wants to make a humorous remark, a throwaway line, but he's distracted when her bra falls away and reveals her perfect tits. His hands come back around of their own accord, hold them gently and he brushes his thumbs over her nipples, delighting when they harden under his touch. A small gasp escapes Laurel's throat, tumbles from her lips like a landslide of rocks crushing him under their unexpected weight.

He groans in return, feels a thrill to see her become aroused above him. For someone to whom this supposedly means nothing, Frank thinks that she suddenly seems quite interested after all. Either that or she's a very convincing actress. So convincing that he can almost forget the hidden camera he set up on the table, and his hidden agenda for buying sex from this girl. Almost.

He casts the thought aside and leans in, presses his lips to the swell of the girl's firm breasts, his coarse beard rubbing up against her soft skin, causing her skin to prickle. He edges his mouth closer to the centre until he can take the hardened nub into his mouth, enveloping it and sucking gently. She gasps, moans, squirms as he swirls a tongue around it, teasing and tasting and revelling.

Suddenly she seems to regain control of herself. She puts a hand on his shoulder, pushes him and encourages him to lie down. He follows her silent command, repositioning them so that he's flat on his back and she's straddling his thighs, leaning over him, the most tempting seductress he's ever seen.

"What is it that you want me to do with you, then, Mr Delfino?" she purrs and his cock throbs, reacts to her on a carnal level that's all need.

"Fuck," he mutters.

She smirks, unable to lose that smugness even now. "I don't know if you've been good enough for a fuck just yet," she teases. "But we can start with something else." She rakes her nails lightly down his sides until she comes to the top of his pants. Her adept fingers come around to the front, undo the button, tug down the zip. Slowly. She palms him over the top of his pants, squeezing the head of his cock as she bites her lip, looking at him with lustful eyes.

Frank's head falls back and he's lost to this girl's prowess. She owns her sexuality in a way that is insanely attractive, teases him and touches him with experienced confidence and complete certainty of what he'll like.

He lifts his hips so that she can pull his pants off. She takes his underwear with it, releases his cock before her. She pushes his pants to his ankles and then resituates herself above him, makes eye contact with him as she moves down his body, hips astride his knees and head directly above his crotch. She brushes her fingers down his hard shaft with a touch that is barely there and only serves to aggravate him more.

He's so used to being the one in control; he takes the girl, not the other way round. But he's putty in her capable hands.

"God, please…" Frank manages to grunt out.

She grins at him, seductive and sensuous. "Whatever you say, Sir." Then, suddenly, she's gripping the base of him with one hand and the other hand comes to gently caress his balls and her hot mouth covers his throbbing head. She's applying pressure, sucking enough that her cheeks are hollowed out. Her eyes are trained on him as she descends, taking more and more of him in until he can feel that he's touching the back of her throat.

"Fuck." His hips lift on their own, seeking rhythm and she doesn't falter, begins bobbing her head up and down, sucking and licking around him like a pro. His hands find her hair, tangle in the soft strands, guide her up and down though she really doesn't need any assistance.

The pressure's building quickly and Frank realizes it's not going to take long for him to hit that peak. He pulls on her hair slightly, tries to get her to stop. "Stop," he starts, "I want… wanna… fuck you…"

But she doesn't stop, she speeds up with more fervour. Her hand comes up to jerk the part of his cock that her mouth can't fit around, she strokes the tender skin at the tops of his thighs with the fingertips of her other hand. She sucks hotly around him, flattens her tongue against the head of his cock, makes Frank hiss at the overwhelming sensation of it all. He's hurtling towards that finish line quicker than he'd like but she's pushing him there with a fierce determination.

He looks down at her to see if she'd heard him and finds her blue eyes looking up at his face. In that instant, she doesn't look like a powerful seductress. She looks like the girl from his dream, and this time her lips are right where he'd wanted them. She looks like the girl who stood at the top of the stairs with him, cracking wicked smiles and confiding in him about her secrets. She looks like Laurel Castillo and she looks like she wants him almost as much as he wants her.

His thighs are trembling, his balls are tightening. He grunts, groans, bucks his hips. "I'm gonna…" he warns the girl.

She releases him with a pop, saliva trailing between them as she kneels before him, strokes his slick cock with a commanding grip. "Cum for me," she says and her voice is raspy and perfect and Frank has no choice but to do exactly as she says.

He groans, loud and guttural, as he releases in long spurts across her face, her chest. He takes over the pumping from her and lets his head fall back on the cushions, bliss washing over him. "Oh, fuck, Laurel," he mutters.

He takes a couple of moments to come down from his high before he looks up again. She's already across the room from him, dropping dirty tissues in the waste basket in the corner. She opens up the cupboard where she'd stashed the money earlier, pulls out a thin robe and covers her modesty.

"We can't be done yet," Frank complains at her actions. "Surely three hundred bucks gets me more than a quick blowie?"

But Laurel doesn't look at him. Her voice is low when she speaks. "Get out."

"What?"

She reaches into the closet again, turns around and throws the money at him, bills showering down. "Take it, I don't want your money. This was a mistake. Get out."

Frank's brow furrows in confusion. "But…"

"Go!" she yells, her voice rising and shrill. Her cheeks are flushed now, her eyes furious.

He bends over, pulls up his pants, bemused.

Laurel picks his shirt up off the floor and throws it at him. She doesn't look at him again.

Frank tugs his shirt back over his head and walks over to the table to collect his things up. He remembers the phone, the video, and grabs it before she sees.

Later that night, Frank watches on the small screen of his cell phone as he grabs up the phone and stops the recording before leaving her alone in the red room.

He hadn't been able to sleep. He'd been losing his mind, swimming in confusion of how things had turned so suddenly. Even now, watching the whole thing back like some kind of creepy voyeur, Frank is just as puzzled as he had been inside the seedy room just a few hours earlier. Had she seen the phone? Surely not or she'd have gotten him to delete the footage? What had happened for her to go from kissing him to keenly sucking him off to flying into a rage?

He restarts the video, tells himself he's just going to watch it again to see if he can work out her sudden mood swing. He doesn't _want_ to watch it, he just needs to see if he can find the trigger…

Somewhere, the transfusion of video and memory morphs into a dream as Frank finally passes into unconsciousness and, in his dreams, Laurel isn't so opposed to fulfilling his needs in other ways, too.

Frank is standing at his desk, sifting through some paperwork the next morning when the front door slams shut. He looks over his shoulder to exchange a look with Bonnie as they hear Annalise's heels clacking furiously down the hallway.

"Tell me something good," she says as she comes in, voice tight.

When neither Frank nor Bonnie speak, she stares between them. "Well?"

"I've got a plan in motion for Dryden's alibi," Frank reveals reluctantly. "I know how to get her to agree to go up on the stand. It's really just a waiting game now."

Annalise observes him carefully and then nods. "And you're sure she'll say yes?"

"Yeah. She's got too much to lose by sayin' no."

"Okay. If she agrees, you'll have to keep tabs on her. She sounds like a flight risk." Annalise turns away to Bonnie, conversation over. "Bonnie, what about Gina? Her case goes to trial on Monday, do we know how we can discredit any of the witnesses yet?"

Bonnie sighs. "Not yet. They seem water-tight so far."

Annalise groans lightly. "Well, my students are giving their suggestions this afternoon. Who knows? Maybe one of them can outperform the both of you." She quirks an eyebrow at her two associates before disappearing inside her office.

The room is quiet for a few moments before Bonnie says, "You're not going to hurt her, are you?"

"Who?" Frank asks, wondering if Bonnie thinks he'd actually harm Annalise for her snide comments.

"The alibi. The stripper."

"Oh. Nah, she'll be fine." But when he looks down at the papers again, all he sees is Laurel's face, already furious with him and he's about to make things so much worse.

He leaves at 10.30, stops by Starbucks on the way. Parks up in the staff parking lot and then meanders through groups of students to one of the many buildings that form the law school. He finds a wall to sit on from which he can see the door to the building before him and then he checks his watch. According to the Middleton timetable in Annalise's office, the 1Ls have Torts for one hour at 10am on Fridays. It's now 10.58.

He's scrolling through his emails on his phone when the bell sounds, realigning his focus. Frank slips his cell into his jacket pocket and leans on the wall, waiting and watching from his vantage point.

The students emerge in bunches and he scans each face looking for hers. Eventually, he spots her, engrossed in conversation with a tall kid. The boy towers over her, looks like he'll get a crick in his neck if he keeps looking down at her much longer. He's gangly and, in Frank's eyes, looks a little weak, a little pathetic.

Laurel and the tall kid are separate from the bunch, something he's noticing more and more about Laurel. She's not a crowd-follower, not a people-pleaser. She forges her own path, even if it might mean burning down anything that gets in her way.

Frank follows them, matches their slow, sauntering pace. They come to the bike racks where the tall boy unlocks a bike – of course he's got a bike – and finally leaves his target alone. Frank steels himself, takes a deep breath, and then approaches her.

"Hi," he says when he's close behind her.

She swivels, fast, but her panicked expression drops to a glare when she spots him. "Oh. Leave me alone." Now she turns away again and starts walking, pace much quicker than it had been before. Frank has to run a little to keep up, a difficult job when you've got a takeout cup in each hand.

"I've got you a latte," he tells her from behind. "Pumpkin spice."

She ignores him, ducks down a narrow alleyway.

"It's like… a peace offering," Frank calls as she ducks around a corner and he follows. "Laurel…"

At the sound of her name, the girl tenses, her whole body seizing up and she stops dead still in front of him, causing him to almost walk right into her. "Laurel…" he starts again, but he doesn't have time to finish.

She whips around and then, as though she's the one a whole head taller with arms the size of branches, she pushes him hard against the brick wall. " _Don't_ ," she snarls and she's vibrating with anger. "Don't call me that. You don't know me."

"I think I know you pretty well, actually," Frank says, lifts his brow suggestively.

"No. You paid _her_ , you know _her_ ; not me," she growls, a kitten with its claws out. Except… Frank's actually a little scared of her. "Don't fool yourself into thinking that they're the same person because they're not. You know Lola, that's who you know. My name is Laurel and I'm a law student and I mind my own business and I keep my head down and I work hard. That's it. You may have googled me, but you don't know me, and I don't know you. So stop following me. I don't want your fucking pumpkin latte, I don't want your fucking money and I _really_ don't want you. I'm not testifying and that's that, Frank."

"His wife knows," Frank says quickly, rushing to get the information across before she walks away. Or tears out his jugular with her teeth. One of the two.

Her eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"Dryden's wife. We told her that we've got his alibi, that you've confirmed it." Frank pauses, but when she doesn't respond, he fills the silence. "She broke down, right in front of us. She didn't know about his visits to Castor Avenue. But at least she knows he's not a murderer, right? She knows he was somewhere else. She knows we've got proof."

Laurel's staring at him and Frank can see the shock in her eyes. He's blindsided her and it hurts. "Why? Why did you tell her that? I'm _not_ going up on that stand, so you have no proof."

Frank's jaw clenches and he sighs. "You have to. Please."

She shakes her head slowly. "I knew you wouldn't drop it. I told you exactly why I can't. You told me… you told me just last night that you're trying not to involve me. You said you wanted to help me."

"Actually, I told _her_." He fires her words back at her; two can play at this game of dual identity.

She glares. "You lied."

Frank shrugs.

"You took advantage of me," she accuses.

He can't deny it, though he wants to tell her that the time he'd spent with her had meant much more to him than it was supposed to. "Look, without you, he'll go to jail. I'm not bluffin'."

"I'm not involved in this, Frank!" she exclaims, hands raised. "I'm not his mistress, I'm not his friend. I was just doing my job and he employed my services. Stop persecuting me because my second job is more morally gray than pulling pints or waiting tables."

"An' I understand that, but you're the only person who saw him that night an' our only hope in winning this case."

"I'm not doing it."

Frank knows that this is it; this is the moment he has to detach. So he levels her with a stare that he usually only reserves for enemies. "Look, I tried to be the good guy here, I did. I tried askin' nicely."

Laurel laughs once. "So what, you gonna beat me into submission? Hold a knife to my back? Walk me into court with a sniper trained on my head?"

Frank just pulls out his phone and opens up his photos, clicks on the video. He turns the phone to her and watches the color fade from her cheeks.

The video is quiet, but they can both hear the shuffling as he props up his phone on the table in the red room. They both hear his voice saying, "I've given you three hundred bucks. What _do_ you do?" Laurel finally goes quiet as she watches them on the screen, watches Frank cross the room to the bed. Watches the scantily-clad, confident version of herself straddle his lap seductively.

Her eyes snap up to him. "You bastard."

Frank just carries on, all business. "If you testify, you save an innocent man and you win the case. We will try to get you in anonymously." He pauses, watches her eyes dull, her spirit fade. "If you don't… well, an innocent man goes to jail and your buddies won't just find out about your… second job, they'll also get to see it in action."

She presses her lips together, so tightly that they're nothing more than a thin line on her face. Frank remembers she did the same thing the night before, recognizes it as a sign of stress. "So you're blackmailing me?"

"I did try askin' nicely first."

"Fuck you," she spits. "You've not got a nice bone in your fucking body." She turns and starts walking away, arms crossed over her chest, body hunched over and closing in on itself.

"Is that a yes?" Frank calls after her retreating figure.

She doesn't turn back.

"I'll let you think about it," he shouts then. "You know where to find me."

He doesn't follow again, lets her walk away. Then, he sighs, looks down at the screen of his cell phone, still playing the sordid video.

Something hurts in his chest for a moment as he remembers the closeness that had seemed to exist between them the night before, but he shakes it off. It had meant nothing, he tells himself. She'd said that, and he'd agreed. It had meant nothing, and she means nothing. She's just another tool in his arsenal to win a case.

That's what he does. His job is to uncover the truth and help Annalise win cases by whatever means necessary.

But something about this girl unsettles him. For the first time, Frank has an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Because this time, he's not sure that the end is going to justify the means.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for keeping up with this hot mess, I hope you're all enjoying it! Next chapter will see Laurel putting forward her case for the Gina/Kauffman trial and Frank feeling more feels because he's hopeless. If you're so inclined, I would love to hear what you think in the comments section or come say hi on tumblr.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you all so much for reading and for your kind words, much appreciated! Sorry this chapter took a bit longer than normal, RL has been a killer. This is the longest one yet, if that makes up for the delay?! I will be quicker next time!**

* * *

Frank is in a foul mood when he returns to the office. He hands off Laurel's rejected pumpkin latte to Bonnie who studies his expression when he sits across from her.

"That bad, huh?" she asks before taking a sip of the coffee and quickly making a face. "Gross, Frank, that's stone cold."

"Then don't drink it." Frank reaches for a file in front of him and opens it up, trying to look busy so that Bonnie won't try to engage him in conversation. He should know that is a futile feat.

"She refuse to testify again?"

He sighs, drops the file enough that he can meet his confidante's eyes. "Not yet."

"Oh. But she's going to say no?"

"She shouldn't." The warning leaks into Frank's tone though it's not a warning intended for Bonnie. He tries again, relaxes his voice. "She won't."

"Why won't she testify anyway?"

Frank hesitates and then tells as much of the truth as he can. "She's got another job, doesn't want her other colleagues knowin' how she makes up her rent."

Bonnie frowns. "And you're threatening to out her if she doesn't testify?"

"Somethin' like that." Well, it's exactly like that, but it's better if Bonnie doesn't know for sure.

"Well, that's not much of a choice," Bonnie says. "She exposes herself or you do. Have you given her motivation, too?"

"I told her we'd try our best to get her in anonymously if she does agree to testify."

Bonnie frowns her best disappointed-parent frown. It's the one that makes Frank feel like a moron, like he doesn't deserve his place here in this office. "We can't promise that, Frank. The defendant has a right to face their accuser or witness. It's in the…"

"Sixth amendment, I know."

"Not to mention, the defendant is our client. We can't put someone on the stand to vouch for Dryden who won't even show their face. That'd just make them _more_ likely to find him guilty, not less. Annalise'd never go for it, let alone the judge…"

"I _know_ , Bon, alright?" Frank snaps, voice louder than he really intended. His hand comes up to his face, pulls anxiously through his beard. "But what can I do? What can I offer her?"

Bonnie rolls her eyes and rubs her fingers together in the universal signal for money. "You know the answer to that."

"You think a bit of cash is really gonna get a stripper on board? She makes hundreds of dollars a night, why would she give that up?"

"Well you've got to give her some kind of reason to get up there and throw herself under the bus." Bonnie pauses, purses her lips. "Or a more convincing deterrent. Is she a flight risk? Do you think she'll run?"

Frank shakes his head, refuses to admit even to himself that each day brings with it a concern that perhaps Laurel Castillo might just drop out, run away, hide in a different law programme, at a different strip club. "Nah," he says. "She's just stubborn."

Bonnie looks like she's about to argue but then they hear the front door so they both reabsorb themselves in work before Annalise walks in. But the words swim on the page in front of Frank's eyes and dread settles in his gut as he begins to wonder whether the video was the right move after all.

A few hours later, the three of them are in position at the front of the class, ready to hear the kids' defences for Gina and her poison aspirin case. Frank's notebook is open in his hands and he's pretending to flick through it and read his notes as the students file in and take their seats. Really, his eyes are darting to the door every few seconds, waiting for her to make an appearance. Praying that Bonnie wasn't right in calling the kid a flight risk.

Eventually, though, she shows. She's wearing a floral top with a white collar at the top of her neck. So innocent and chaste that it conflicts completely with the other girl, the one that Frank knows. It makes his fingers itch to go to her, peel the stupid shirt from her body in front of everyone in the room and show them what she's hiding underneath, all lace and skin and sex. But while he's staring and pining after her body like some horny teenager, she doesn't even spare him a glance. She holds her head high and takes her seat confidently, standing out amidst the throng of nervous energy that her peers are presenting. He watches as her fingers flick through a notebook, remembers the feel of them ghosting over his cock. She bites her lip slightly and he remembers the taste of her, the noises that had spilled from her.

Bonnie clears her throat next to him, snapping Frank out of it.

He looks to her. "What?"

Bonnie inches closer so that she can whisper to him without Annalise overhearing. "Maybe if you spent less time sleeping with the students and more time talking to your alibis, you wouldn't be letting the side down."

"Nice," Frank returns icily, stopping the conversation there before she can even begin to read his face and jump to the correct conclusion that the student and the alibi are one and the same. At this point, he's not sure how much to tell Bonnie so, for now, he settles on nothing. He doesn't tell her the truth, but he's not going to tell her a lie either; not until he knows where he stands.

Eventually, the class starts and the mouthy girl, the prom queen type, who sits in front goes first. Of course. She puts forward a good case and Frank tries to concentrate, tries to let her commandeering voice… well, commandeer him, but occasionally he slips and his eyeline slides to his left, finding Laurel instantly in the crowd. But she's never looking at him.

Student after student take their turn to make their case, argue a defence. Some are good, most are alright, and some are downright idiotic. But none of them are particularly noteworthy, which Frank, Bonnie and Annalise have come to expect from these sessions. It shows how much learning these kids have still got to do.

When the current kid finishes up – a mousy buy arguing some twisted version of diminished capacity – Annalise doesn't even confer with Frank and Bonnie before booting him out of the competition. Frank watches as Annalise scans the remaining pupils with their hands up and sees her eyes settle on the left-hand side, on her. "You," she says, pointing.

Laurel stands up and Frank freezes, watches her nervously. She seems calm, stands tall, but she can't keep her eyes fixed on any one place, her gaze flitting about and addressing everyone in the room – everyone, except Frank. "A statistical breakdown of the jury pool shows that 80% of them come from a low socio-economic class," she starts. "So we should pitch this case as a classic example of a class struggle. Gina's one of them while Mr Kauffman represents the wealthy and out-of-touch. We make the jury like Gina, relate to her. We bring them on board so that they can see our client as someone that would be on their side, fighting in their corner while Mr Kauffman is the oppressor. Like any of us, Gina has moments of strength and moments of weakness and she's ashamed of her affair with Mr Kauffman, of course she is, but he overpowered her, he made her feel like she couldn't say no." Laurel takes a breath, her gaze skitters towards Frank but never quite touches him, edges around him like an animal afraid to get too close.

An uncomfortable feeling settles in Frank's gut that makes him wonder whether Laurel's defence argument is just about Gina and Mr Kauffman. His mind flashes to her half-naked body hovering over him, her kiss meeting his equally. If anything, _she_ had overpowered Frank in that red room, not the other way round.

"Now she's the victim, the regretful mistress," Laurel continues. "She knows she was wrong and she's sorry, and she's ready to atone for her wrongdoings to Mr and Mrs Kauffman's marriage. But she didn't kill him. She's weak, yes, and a cheater, and she's made some bad decisions. But she's not a bad person. She's not a murderer." Her voice is rising, becoming more impassioned. "The mistress isn't always the villain. They're often painted as such because it's easier for us to believe that a stranger could appear out of thin air and steer our loved ones wrong, but they're just a human being. They have lives and loved ones and morals all of their own. The mistress is not the villain. But she's usually the first one to have the finger pointed at. Why? Other potential alibis have been overlooked…" Her expression freezes for a second, eyes flicker wide and she clears her throat. "Sorry, other suspects have been overlooked in this case because everyone's so keen to blame the mistress. Kauffman's wife wants to point the finger at our client because she was wronged by their affair, not because she could be guilty of murder!"

Laurel takes another deep breath and looks back to Annalise, speaking more confidently than before. "This is an unfair trial of a woman who is uninvolved in the case at hand and she shouldn't have been dragged into this by association. She's just a person, like any of us, only she happens to have been caught in the crosshairs of a wealthy man's personal issues causing other potential suspects to be overlooked. That's the argument we should make." Finally, those impassioned eyes slide sideways, find Frank watching her. She meets his gaze. "She's not involved."

The timer sounds, punctuating the end of Laurel's plea perfectly.

Annalise looks to Frank and Bonnie, raised eyebrows silently asking for their assessment of the argument but Frank's frozen in place, stuck down by Laurel's measured gaze, her pointed words.

"It's pretty close to part one of your own strategy," Bonnie murmurs when Frank doesn't step up. "Present a new suspect."

Frank finally snaps out of it. "Yeah. Immaturely argued, but the idea's there. The class struggle ain't a bad angle. You could work with that."

Annalise nods, turns back to Laurel. "Take a seat, Miss Castillo."

Laurel nods back, smiles slightly and sits back down. Frank watches as she heaves out a sigh of relief and stares blankly at the seat in front of her. After a moment, she looks up and now she meets his eye. They stare at each other for the shortest of moments and then Laurel just shakes her head and looks away.

She doesn't look back again.

Luckily, the 1L lecture is the last thing in Frank's diary for the working week. He's strung out and his mind is going to implode if he has to spend another second thinking about her, so he makes his excuses after he, Bonnie and Annalise have finished packing up and heads home. Lacking the energy to even whip up some dinner, he has macaroni from the box and then goes straight to bed.

On Saturday he goes to visit his ma. She questions his uncharacteristic quietness over lunch when they're washing up together and he tells her he's just tired from work. She kisses his forehead and tells him not to work too hard, as she always does, but he can see the pride in her eyes. Proud that her boy from Fishtown has to wear a three-piece to work, that he has a different life than she did. And Frank loves making his ma feel proud.

But it's not enough to put Laurel out of his mind altogether.

When he leaves late that evening, he detours down Castor Avenue, drives slowly past the club, wonders whether she's working. But he doesn't go in. He knows he has to respect her boundaries at some point if he ever wants her to be agreeable. Instead, he goes home and stands under a cold shower, willing his brain to forget the images of her in those suspenders, the stockings, those dark blue panties…

Her face haunts his dreams, too. And not in a good way. Over and over his mind shows him the blood flooding from her face as though he'd shot her through the chest. The fear and fury clouding her eyes as she realised that he'd recorded their intimate moment, that he was holding it above her head like a noose, welcoming her to slip her neck in and hang herself.

He's dreaming about that moment, about the way her eyes had snapped to him, glared at him, when he's pulled back to consciousness by the shrill ring of his cell. "'ello?" he answers groggily without checking the caller ID.

"Are you still asleep?" Annalise's voice hints at disgust.

"Uh…"

She doesn't wait for a response. "Sorry to interrupt your lie-in but I need you."

Frank sits up fully, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, sees that it's almost 11.30. "Okay, where an' when?"

"The prison, as soon as possible."

"Why? What happened?"

Annalise's voice is wary when she quickly explains. "I got a call from a guard; Miranda Dryden showed up in a bit of a state. She wants to confront Richard about the stripper and she won't leave. Apparently, she said she wanted to 'kill that son of a bitch'. I'd go by myself but… well, I'm not sure how either of them is going to handle the confrontation so I'd like back-up."

Frank sighs. "Sure, I'll be there in twenty."

Annalise is waiting outside when he arrives, and she quickly falls into step beside him when he takes the stairs to the door.

"Does Dryden know that his wife knows about L- the stripper?" Frank asks quietly, thankfully catching his slip-up in time.

"No," Annalise replies, "but he's about to find out."

Miranda Dryden is sitting on a bench inside the reception area when they walk in, and she's a mess. There's make-up smeared across her face, gasping breaths tearing from her chest and it may be only midday on a Sunday, but Frank can smell the alcohol on her from a few feet away.

"Mrs Dryden," Annalise greets as they walk over. "What's going on?"

The woman's head snaps up at her name being called and she seems to crumble anew before their eyes. "He took me to Hawaii," she says, voice pitchy. "And we had sex on the beach at night time. A public beach! How can he just… I can put out. I'm not some dried up old hag, he doesn't need those… those… skanks!"

"Mrs Dryden," Annalise says again, sits beside her. "You need to calm down. We can't let you in to see Richard like this."

"Like hell you can't!" she snaps. "I'm on the visitors list and I have a legal right to see my husband. Why won't they let me in?" she demands furiously.

"Mrs Dryden, you told the guard that you wanted to kill your husband. They won't let you in if they think that you will be a risk to yourself or someone else. They called me because I am his attorney and the only other person on Richard's visitors list. Now, we can go in together and discuss matters calmly or I'm afraid you're going to have to leave and come back another time."

"I'm calm," she insists. "I'm calm."

Annalise looks at Frank and he shrugs at her, communicates silently that he'll go in with them if she judges that to be the best move. Annalise turns back to the woman. "Let's get you cleaned up, have a glass of water and then we can go in, okay?"

"I'm calm, I am!"

"Well, I'm sure you'll feel better after a rest break." Not willing to take no for an answer, Annalise helps Mrs Dryden up and guides her to the bathroom. "Wait here," she tells Frank.

A short time later, the two women emerge and somehow Miranda looks a heck of a lot more sane without the dark panda eyes and hysterical breathing. Annalise leaves her with Frank and goes to have a quiet word with the guard, who nods and then passes her the book to sign-in.

The guard lets them through, leads them to a room and asks for them to take a seat. Then he leaves and, moments later, returns with Richard, limping along and cuffed. He seems to light up when he sees his wife. "Mandy!" he says. "You're here. You haven't been in…"

Miranda is glaring before her husband's even sitting down. "Save it, Richard," she hisses. "I know all about what you did."

Richard stares at her. "I didn't kill Eddie, Miranda. I swear."

"Not that! The girls. The sex."

He looks over, notices Annalise and Frank sitting beside his wife. "You told her," he says quietly, sadly.

"We had to, Richard," Annalise responds. "It's the only evidence we've got that says you're innocent."

"Why?" his wife butts in, voice tinged with hurt and desperation. "Why would you do that to me?"

The man's face sags and he sighs quietly. "Mandy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, it just… happened."

"It didn't just happen, Richard," she replies, and Frank's surprised by the steadiness of her voice. "It's not like you just fell into bed with the girl; you sought her out and paid her."

Frank watches the other man's face and finds that he feels a strange kinship with him. Frank knows how it 'just happens'. Particularly with her; Lola can be a persuasive mistress. Or, at least, her stockings and suspenders can.

"It's my alibi, Mandy. This kid is my alibi otherwise I go away for murder. Please, you've got to know that it meant nothing. It was just sex; I love _you_. Only you. I wouldn't dream of telling anyone but without her testimony, I'll get life in jail."

It's silent for a moment and then she whispers, "For better and for worse."

"What?" Richard whispers back.

"We're together in sickness and health, for better and for worse, Richard. That's why I'm going to stick by you. Not because I love you, or I forgive you, but because I made a promise to God and I'm going to see it through. As long as you never laid a finger on Eddie Reed."

"He was my friend, Mandy. I swear to God, I never hurt him. Whoever butchered him like that deserves life in prison, but I swear that person is not me."

"Okay," she says, nodding. "Okay."

"Okay?"

Miranda reaches across, takes his hand in hers and squeezes gently. "Okay, I believe you." She looks at Annalise. "I'll testify. I'll give the best character witness statement the court has ever heard. I just want you to free my husband."

"We will absolutely try our very best," Annalise promises with a tight-lipped smile.

The other woman looks back to her husband. "And when you're free, we're getting counselling. And you're never going back to that filthy place."

"Of course." Richard nods fervently. "Anything you want. I'll make this better, Mandy. I promise."

When they leave the prison a little later that afternoon, Richard's promise still fresh in their minds, Miranda seems placated. Unhappy, sure, but less unhappy than she was when they arrived. And when she stops Frank and Annalise on the steps outside the entrance, she seems completely in control.

"Thank you," she says to Annalise, eyes flickering briefly to Frank. "I know I embarrassed myself in there and… just, thank you."

"That's what we're here for," Annalise tells her softly, even though Frank's certain that babysitting client's drunken wives was never in his job description.

The woman hesitates slightly and then adds, "But I do have a condition."

"Oh?"

"To testify. I don't want to look a fool, Mrs Keating, I'm sure you understand. I can't go up on the stand and talk about Richard and how much I love him only for it to be revealed that he's been unfaithful."

"What's the condition, Mrs Dryden?" Annalise asks, and her voice is hard now.

"Please don't reveal anything about the affair. I don't want that… that girl to speak about my husband. I don't want everyone and sundry to know how foolish I've been to miss the signs."

Frank's gaze snaps to Annalise and his heart thumps against his rib cage. If Annalise accepts this condition, Laurel's free.

"Mrs Dryden…"

"No, please. I understand what I'm asking. I know she's his alibi. I know that without an alibi he looks guilty but I'm asking… I'm begging… please find another way. I can't be made a fool of. This secret will stay exactly that: secret. Otherwise, you can try to defend my husband on the word of a common whore and his lack of character witness will speak for itself." Mrs Dryden draws herself up tall. "You're the best in your field, Mrs Keating. We're paying for the best, and the best should find another way."

Annalise stares at the other woman for a few moments. "Okay, Mrs Dryden. I will see what I can do."

She smiles and her shoulders sag in relief. "Thank you, Mrs Keating. You won't regret this."

Annalise simply smiles back and bids the woman her goodbyes and then she and Frank watch as Miranda descends the stairs and gets into a waiting cab. "I swear this case is just a whole lot of damage control," Annalise mutters darkly. Then, she turns to Frank. "Has she agreed to testify yet?"

Frank's brow rises in surprise. "Uh… I was gonna talk to her tomorrow. D'you want me to tell her we don't need her anymore?"

"No," Annalise says.

"But Mrs Dryden said-"

"I've got ears, Frank, I know what she said. But Miranda Dryden is not my client and it is not in my job description to do as she says. My job is to defend Richard against the charges put to him and the only way we can do that is to present a solid alibi. Now, has the girl agreed to testify yet or not?"

Frank falters and Annalise huffs.

"Really? You still haven't convinced her? I'll talk to her myself." Annalise checks her watch. "Pick me up at 9 o'clock tonight, Frank. You're taking me to that girl and I'll get her up on that stand if it's the last thing I do."

All Frank can do is nod and watch as Annalise turns on her heel and heads over to her car.

He follows, finds his own car and climbs into the driver's seat, sits silently for a moment, trying to still his racing thoughts. Two paths have appeared before him and he has to decide where his allegiance lies.

He gets things done for Annalise, that's his life sentence, and God knows he owes her. He owes her this. He needs to take her to the kid, tell Annalise who she really is, watch as his boss threatens Laurel with testifying or failing out of Middleton Law with a promise that she'll never get into another law school as long as Annalise has any influence in the field.

That's what he should do.

Instead, with the girl's voice ringing in his ear, begging him not to tell Professor Keating, he fishes his cell out of his pocket. Then, almost without thinking, he taps out a text message to the number he paid so much to acquire:

 _Keating's going to the club tonight to talk to Lola. If you're planning on being there, change your plans. F_

When Annalise climbs in the passenger seat of his car at just before 9 that evening, Frank is antsy as hell. Neither of them speak as Frank makes the drive to the club on Castor Avenue and it just makes him more nervous. His cell burns red hot in his pocket and he's on edge still waiting for it to go off. He'd been checking it obsessively all afternoon but has still had no luck. No read receipt, no response, no indication at all that the number was even viable.

Now, as he pulls up outside the club, he knows he's about to betray either Annalise or Laurel, and he's not sure which one it will be.

Parks is just inside the entrance when they get there which, Frank supposes, will either be really good luck or a really bad omen. He recognises Frank right away. "Kevin!" he cries, voice slightly slurred, as he comes over and pats Frank heavily on the shoulder. "Back so soon? Let me guess, you're looking for Lola?" Then, he catches sight of Annalise and leans back. "Oh, and you brought someone. Kinky."

Annalise stretches out a hand to introduce herself. "Bonnie," she lies smoothly, causing Frank to quirk an eyebrow at her. "And you are?"

"Mr Jared Parks, Miss," Parks replies, politer than Frank's ever heard and giving a first name that Frank's not heard before.

"Well, Mr Parks, my friend and I are not interested in partaking in any illicit activities, but we really need to talk to one of your girls, urgently."

Parks eyes narrow suspiciously. "What's it about?"

Annalise doesn't skip a beat. "The murder of Mr Edward Reed."

The man's head snaps towards Frank. "You a cop? I known you all this time and you're a cop?"

"No," Frank hurries to reassure him. "Not a cop. Just curious."

Parks turns back to Annalise. "I'm sure my girls ain't murdered nobody, Miss. They're good'uns. An' Mr Reed was a good customer of ours. Here on the regular; I for one certainly wouldn't want to see 'im gone. Doubt any of my ladies would either. I heard he's a damn good tipper."

This is news to Frank and he can already hear Annalise cursing him out in the car for not telling her about this. It changes things, he knows that.

"Was Mr Reed ever a customer of Lola's?" Annalise asks, curiosity piqued.

"I don't know for sure, Miss. I expect so; we don't get many new girls so most of our clients wanted a time with the new girl."

"But he probably knew her?"

"Probably. But Lola's a good kid, she keeps her head down. Does her job. Most o' the time, anyway."

"We really need to speak to her. Now."

"I'm afraid-"

Sensing a rejection, Annalise cuts him off. "Look, I'm not a cop, but some of my good friends are so I'm sure you won't want to keep me waiting."

The man glares at Frank when he registers the thinly-veiled threat. "Well tough shit," Mr Parks says sourly, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning back on his heels. "She ain't here."

Frank's chest swells with hope that maybe his message got through to her, but he stuffs it back down. "Well, where is she?"

"How am I supposed to know? All I know is she was s'posed to be 'ere and then she called in sick just an hour before her shift. Left me right high and dry, she did. She had three appointments scheduled an' all."

Frank breathes a sigh of relief, hopes that Laurel will have seen his message for the kind act that it was. Hopes that it will lessen the blow somehow of him being a total ass to her on Friday.

"When will she be back?" Annalise demands behind him.

Parks shrugs. "She weren't scheduled to work again 'til Thursday so probably then."

"Fine, we'll be back then," Annalise says. "Thank you." She turns and leaves and Frank follows, nervously awaiting the telling-off he knows is coming.

The drive back to the Keating place is tense. Annalise is giving him the silent treatment and Frank can't deny that he deserves it. When he pulls up outside the big house, he turns off the engine, switches off the headlights and they both sit and stare straight ahead for a long moment.

Eventually, she speaks, "Did you know?"

Frank is careful, gives away nothing. "Know what?"

"Any of it. That she wouldn't be there, that Reed was her client…"

"We don't know for sure that Reed was her client," Frank says quickly.

"We need to find out." Finally, Annalise looks at him. "You have to find her, Frank. Tonight. If she knew Reed, if she had anything to do with him, that would explain why she's so against taking the stand. And if she's not at the club then who knows where she is; she may not even be in Philadelphia anymore. You need to find her and make sure that she doesn't do a runner."

Frank nods.

Annalise reaches for the handle, but then turns back. "Don't approach her, this time. Don't spook her. Definitely don't tell her that we know she might have worked with Reed. If she's had anything to do with him and she thinks we're onto her… she'll run."

"Got it."

"I mean it, Frank. This case is hanging on by a thread. We can't lose the kid, too. Especially not if we might be able to present her as an alternative suspect." Annalise shoots Frank a loose smile. "See you tomorrow."

He nods and mumbles a goodnight back, but he can barely hear himself think, let alone speak. Annalise's words ring in his ears: _an alternative suspect_. If Laurel had agreed to take the stand as Richard's alibi, she'd have been a whore in the rest of her classmates' eyes. But now… now, she could be seen as a murderer.

Suddenly, the stakes have never seemed so high.

Frank pulls out his cell, types out a second text to the number which still hadn't responded: _You up?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry again for the delay! However, I think that some of you will find this chapter worth the wait...** **  
** **Time for Frank and Laurel to finally have an open conversation and hammer out some of their issues.**

By the time Frank gets back to his apartment, there's still no response on his cell. He sits for a moment, weighing up his options and then he pulls up the number and, instead of sending another message, hits dial. His pulse races as he waits for the line to connect and then… it rings.

Once. Twice. Voicemail.

Frank groans, frustrated, and hangs up without leaving a message.

Before he can contemplate his next move, though, the cell vibrates in his hand. He looks down and sees he has a new message.

 _Fuck off_.

He pulls up the text screen, hastily taps out a reply: _I really need to talk to you._

This time, her reply comes just as fast: _I'm not some booty call and I don't want to talk to you. Stop texting me._

 _I'm trying to help you,_ Frank tries to explain in his next response, but she doesn't buy it.

 _Last time you said that, you recorded me without my consent and blackmailed me with it. As far as I'm aware, you're still blackmailing me and that is not how you try to help someone._

He doesn't reply, and hits call again instead. When it goes straight to voicemail, he tries again and, this time – third time's the charm – she answers. "I mean it," she says as soon as she picks up, voice icy. "Stop texting, stop calling, stop pestering me."

"Where do you live?" Frank asks, ignoring her demands.

Laurel's biting laugh echoes down the line. "Like I'm going to tell you that! So you can come round and perv on me at home as well?"

"Laurel…" Frank sighs. "You gotta trust me; this time, I'm the good guy."

She doesn't respond.

"Look, I gave you a heads up 'bout Annalise, didn't I?"

"Yeah, thanks for that. I'm out about 400 bucks." Her tone is disgruntled but not completely hateful and Frank can't help but think that her thanks was just a little bit genuine.

"She's gonna keep comin' 'til she finds you. She got Parks on side real quick and if you're not careful, he's gonna share somethin' about you that you don't wan' him to."

"He already has."

"What?"

"Parks. He gave you my number, didn't he?"

"Well… not exactly…"

"Don't play dumb. Obviously, this isn't my proper cell number, it's a burner just for my second job. You're the only one who's ever called this number, and the only person I even gave it to was him so…"

"I mighta bribed it outta him," Frank admits in a voice that's entirely too proud to be believably ashamed. He can practically hear the girl's eyes rolling. He turns the conversation back to where he wants it to be going. "Look, I know you don't trust me-"

"Or like you," she interjects dryly.

"Or like me but you don't got a lot of choice." He hesitates, remembering Annalise's advice not to talk to the girl, but then he follows his gut and says, "Parks told us that the dead guy was a regular of yours at the club. Reed." He pauses and adds, "You could be getting yourself in some real hot water here."

The line is silent for a second and then he hears a sigh. "5848 Langdon Street."

He takes a moment to process the information before he realises she's giving in to him. Extending an olive branch. "I'll be there in twen'y."

Thanks to the bending of several speeding laws, Frank arrives at the address in thirteen minutes. He parks up outside and walks up the steps. He realises that he doesn't know which apartment she's in, but it turns out not to matter because the buzzer goes off and the door clicks; she must have been watching. He pushes the door and heads up the indoor stairs until he sees an open door and the girl he's come to know leaning against the frame. She's fully-dressed this time, her high-necked top disappointingly conservative, but her skinny jeans hug her curves tightly and leave little to the imagination.

Frank waits before her and raises his eyebrows when she doesn't budge. "Can I come in?"

"Turn out your pockets," she says.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Frank shakes his head but pulls out his keys, wallet and cell from the pockets of his slacks nonetheless. Laurel holds out her hand and he knows what she wants; he passes her his cell phone and watches as she presses the home button, checks the screen to make sure it's not recording. She looks up at him, presses her lips together and then pockets the phone. "You can have it back later."

He sighs. "Laurel…"

"I don't trust you," she says sharply. "I'm not letting you in my home unless I know you're not going to try anything."

"I'm not," he tells her, as sincerely as he can. "I promise."

Finally, she stands aside and holds the door wider so that he can come in.

Her apartment is small but pretty nice. It's neat and tidy and clean. And bare. In fact, it lacks any personal touch at all. "Nice digs for a student," he remarks.

"How hot is the water, Frank?" Laurel asks, cutting to the chase, echoing his concern from their phone conversation.

He turns to her, sticks his hands in his pockets. "I don't know yet. Did you sleep with the guy?"

She stares at him for a moment. "It's my job. If they pay me, I have to do it. I can't pick and choose."

"I know, but did you?"

She nods, watches his reaction carefully. "Yes. Only once; I only started working there a week before he died."

"So you must have seen him literally a few days before he was killed?"

"I guess so."

"Did he say anything to you? Do you know anything that was going on between him and Richard? Or Richard's wife, Mandy?"

She huffs and rolls her eyes slightly. "He didn't pay me to gossip, Frank. Believe it or not, you're my only client interested in talking."

"I'm hardly a client," Frank objects.

"You gave me money for sex. That counts."

Frank crosses his arms over his chest. "Not that you delivered on the sex."

Her gaze has drifted to his biceps, but she quickly looks away again and shrugs. "Sexual acts, then. If you want to be picky." Laurel crosses the room to sit on a small, faded green couch. She brushes a hand through her hair and sighs, looks up at him with wide and innocent eyes. "Look, all I know about the dead guy is what I've read in the news. He was a History professor at Middleton, divorcee, sleeping with Dryden's wife. That's it." She pauses and frowns. "Although…"

"Although?" Frank takes a couple of steps towards her, pulled in like a minnow on a reel, baited and doomed.

"Well, it's probably nothing but he told me that he'd only slept with strippers since his wife left him." She looks up at Frank. "He said it had to be unattached."

Frank frowns back at her. "Unless he didn't want to mention that he'd screwed his friend's wife?"

Laurel just shrugs. "Probably. Well, anyway. That's all I know. Will the police want to question me if they find out Reed was my client?"

Frank doesn't respond, is too deep in thought to hear her words. He thinks about the Drydens' interactions in the dark room earlier that day, wonders why Richard is so forgiving of his wife's affair when supposedly that is his motive for murdering Reed. He wonders whether Richard – carted off to prison without bail before the case hit the tabloids – would even know about the affair. He wonders whether he might have just stumbled across a key argument for their defense.

"Frank?" Laurel's voice cuts through his internal monologue. "Am I in trouble?"

Frank tries to push aside his thoughts of Richard Dryden; after all, he can't help him now. He looks down at the girl on the sofa and shakes his head with a sigh. "No, no."

"Right," she says, one eyebrow raised and uncertainty clear on her face. "You came running over here at midnight on a Sunday because everything is fine."

Frank moves towards the sofa, gestures to the seat beside Laurel and waits for her to nod her consent for him to sit beside her. "This just… it's a complication. Annalise wants to talk to you herself… well, she wants to talk to Lola. Because I ain't gettin' anywhere." He looks at her pointedly.

She avoids meeting his gaze.

"An' now… this thing with Reed. It's… a complication," he repeats. "But I don't think Annalise will go to the cops about it. She'll want to keep this card close to her chest."

Laurel's silent for a few moments, thinking. "Will she back off me if you tell her I'll testify?"

"Earlier this afternoon she would've, yeah."

"And now?"

Frank shrugs. "Honestly? I don't know. Probably." He observes her closely. "But you're not going to testify, are you?"

"I plead the fifth," she says, refusing to answer and looking up to meet his gaze again with a smirk.

Frank just rolls his eyes. "I can't lie to her."

"I know." Laurel bites her lip for a moment. "And I can't testify." Suddenly, she turns to him, angles her whole body so she's completely facing him, feet tucked up underneath her on the sofa. "Are you still blackmailing me?"

"Well, I've still got the video, if that's what you mean," he replies vaguely.

"Obviously. But are you gonna use it? Or was it a bluff?"

"It wasn't a bluff. I don't bluff."

Her sharp mind catches what he's not telling her. "But you're not going to use it."

It's not a question; Frank can tell that she's seen right through him, so he doesn't reply, and his silence serves as a confirmation of her suspicions anyway. He hadn't been bluffing at the time, but now he's not sure he can follow through.

"Thank you," she says softly after a moment, finally showing that she can be gracious.

Frank just nods, let his head fall back and rest against the back of the sofa. He closes his eyes and they sit for a while in a semi-comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. There's a question on the tip of Frank's tongue but he holds onto it, pursing his lips to stop it slipping out of its own accord. He doesn't want to offend her when they've just built a bridge.

But, even without looking at him, Laurel notices the silence. "What is it?" she asks wearily. "What are you not saying?"

Frank opens his eyes and looks across at her. He hesitates and then shakes his head. "Nothin'."

She huffs. "Look, I've seen you naked. You can say whatever it is."

"Alright then." He sits up fully and watches her face. "Why'd you kick me out of that room?"

"It's a good thing I did," she says accusingly, avoiding his enquiry by hinting again at his recording and subsequent blackmail.

"That don't answer my question."

She pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezes her eyes shut, frustrated.

Frank smirks. "You said I could ask."

"Fine." Her eyelids fly back, revealing the fascinating, swirling, churning storms within. "You got too close, okay? You said my name."

He stares at her for a moment, processing her words.

"My real name," she adds when it doesn't appear to click.

Frank casts his mind back, remembers groaning out as he painted her face with his cum. "Oh."

Laurel's biting on a nail, looking surprisingly vulnerable. "No one's supposed to know us, there. We're not allowed to give our real names; if a client asks us then we give them a second fake name. And a third if we need to. No one knows the real you, not even the other girls. But you did, and I shouldn't have let you in, but I did. And that was a big mistake."

"Because you could lose your job?"

"Yeah. And because you could tell someone else. Because someone could overhear. Because it could put me in danger to have a client know me, know about me." She shuffles forwards, hangs her feet over the edge of the couch again, rests her elbows on her knees. "It's dangerous this line of work. I carry pepper spray everywhere in case someone takes a liking to me and tries to follow me home. I worry that some old guy will recognise me at the grocery store, on campus, in court… It could follow me everywhere." Laurel glances over at Frank, gives a wry smile. "It _has_ followed me everywhere."

Suddenly, Frank feels guilty. And guilt isn't something he's used to feeling. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm jus' tryin' to do my job. I don't wanna put you in danger."

"I know."

After a moment of silence, Frank stands. "I'll go."

Laurel looks up at him and the storms in her eyes are calmer, the choppy waves replaced with still, dark, depthless oceans. "That's probably best."

She gets up as well and walks with him to the door. She opens the door and Frank steps across the threshold, turns back and gives her a short smile. "You're comin' to Gina's trial tomorrow, right?" he checks, finding that he wants to delay leaving for some reason. "You're still in the competition for the internships."

She nods. "Yeah, I'll be there." There's a short pause and then she adds, "See you tomorrow, then."

Frank nods back. "See you," he echoes. After a moment, he turns away and heads for the stairwell, feeling her eyes on him as he leaves.

He's gone down just one flight when: "Frank, wait!"

He turns, pulse thrumming. "Yeah?"

Laurel comes down the stairs behind him, holding something out. "Your cell."

"Oh. Thanks." He meets her eye as he takes it and pockets it, and she smiles tentatively. He smiles back. "Bye."

But she doesn't reply. At least, not with words. Something seems to resolve in her eyes and she takes a small step closer, standing up onto her toes to draw herself up to his height so that her lips can find his.

Relief tingles through Frank's entire body as he allows himself to feel the yearning for her that he's been holding back since he turned up on her doorstep over an hour ago. His arms come up, one latches around her hips to hold her in place and the other palm drifts up her back, tangles in her hair. He returns her kiss, parts his lips and meets her tongue in a dance they seem to both know the moves to without any practice at all. He stumbles backwards until his back is pressed against the wall of the hallway and she's pinning him there and assaulting his mouth, her lithe little hands going to his hips and wrestling with the buckle of his belt. He holds her body close to him, relishing the press of her breasts against his chest, the hand that was on her hip migrating to palm her ass over the tight jeans.

She breaks the kiss to look down so that she can find the release for his belt and her breathing is heavy.

"Thought you didn't do kissing," Frank remarks, unable to miss the opportunity for a dig.

Laurel's eyes flick to him and narrow slightly. "Loladidn't do kissing. _I_ don't care."

Frank shoots her a look, a pinched smirk on his lips.

She rolls her eyes. "Look, this isn't _Pretty Woman_. I can separate my emotions from my lips, so if I want to kiss you, I will. Don't panic, I'm not about to declare myself; sometimes sex can just be sex."

Frank had a reply on the tip of his tongue, but Laurel's finally undone his belt and she's working on the zipper and then his slacks loosen, granting her enough access to find his straining cock through his boxers, and coherent thought is a thing on the past. Her fingers stroke him over the thin material and a groan rumbles through Frank's chest as his hips buck towards her. He releases his hand from the tangle of her hair and reaches between them to find the button of her jeans. He deftly undoes the fastener, pushes her pants down a little and reaches inside to find the spot that he was so cruelly denied access to the last time he and Laurel were in this position.

He cups his hand around her and a breathy grunt falls from his lips when he feels how damp her panties already are. She's not wearing a thong this time, but her lace-edged black panties are almost better because they're a sign that she's not performing for him, that her shallow breathing and lustful eyes aren't some cleverly-designed fiction. He presses his hand against her, the heel of his palm finding her clit and applying a pressure that makes her thrust against him, a wanton moan escaping her that he swallows with his kiss. He adjusts his hand so that he can finger her clit, delicately circling around the swelling nub.

Laurel's lips fall away from his as her head tips backwards and she moans uncontrollably. Her fingers have stilled on his cock, her own pleasure distracting her to the point of insanity and Frank takes full opportunity of her incapacitation to turn them around so that she's the one with her back pressed against the peeling wallpaper of the stairwell. Even as he turns her, he doesn't take his hand from her panties; instead, he moves in closer, finds her neck with his lips, his beard lighting her pale skin with goosebumps as he kisses along her jawline. Her scraping breaths and quiet whimpers soundtrack his journey across her neck and it's the most arousing symphony Frank's ever heard.

"Fuck," he mutters against her throat as he feels her panties get wetter under his touch; she's leaking like a faucet and he wants to feel more. Unable to hold back, he pushes the panties aside and strokes his fingers from her clit down the slick folds, her juices coating him.

Laurel makes a tiny, whining noise. "Just do it… please…"

Frank glances up at her face, head thrown back, swollen lips parted and still wet from his kiss. He smirks, seeing his opportunity to drive her even crazier. He teases her entrance with his forefinger and then circles back up to her clit again. "Do what?" he asks softly, bringing his lips back up so that he can whisper gruffly in her ear. "You want me to fuck your wet pussy with my fingers?"

"Mmm…" is all the confirmation she can give, her thighs coming together around his wrist as she desperately seeks more friction.

"You want me to fill an' stretch that tight pussy until you're clamping around my hand, spilling over my fist," he says to her softly, dropping the questioning tone; he knows what she wants. "An' then I'll start fucking you, add a third finger an' find that spot that feels so good until you're beggin' me not to stop."

"Yes," she breathes, hips lifting towards him.

He cups his hand over her again, tight and pressing, tip of his middle finger just about slipping inside of her. He feels it coat in a fresh wave of liquid and his cock is impossibly hard in his pants. He's not sure he's ever felt such intense arousal before and he wants desperately to give up on the foreplay and take her right there against the wall, but Frank's been raised better than that and he knows how to give a lady what she wants.

"You want me to make you come around me until your legs are so weak you can't hold yourself up," he continues, teasing them both.

"Fuck, stop talking about it and do it," Laurel snaps, squirming atop of his palm.

Frank obeys the directive and moves his wrist, pushing two fingers inside of her, feeling her walls pull him in and hold him tightly. He pushes as deep as he can go and curls his fingers, feeling the hot, slick inside of her and he can barely see straight, he wants her so badly.

Laurel makes a series of incomprehensible sounds as she clenches around him, encouraging Frank to begin fucking her in earnest, pumping his fingers in and out in a building rhythm. He can hear her wetness suctioning around him and he drops his head, looks between them to watch his fingers disappear into her cunt and, _fuck_ , if that isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen.

But still he wants more.

"Lift up your legs," he urges her quietly.

She obeys quickly, loops her hands around the back of his neck to hold herself up, her fingers capturing the hair she finds there and gripping it, but he barely registers the tug. Frank brings his other hand back down to help her latch her calves around him, granting him better access to her core. He surges deeper, hooks his fingers inside of her and hunts for the spot that he knows will send her reeling.

"Oh fuck, fuck," she keens, drawing his eyes back to her face. She's watching him through half-lidded eyes, teeth skimming her bottom lip and he can't help but stare as she bites down gently, the soft pillow of her lip succumbing to her teeth.

He pushes harder into her, feels the warm gush of her, memorises the velvet soft contours of her. Frank's never known such lust, never met a girl who he wants so completely, and he wants everything. He wants everything, all at once, so badly that it's hard to focus.

Her hips are rocking against him of their own accord, meeting his rhythm and challenging it. Her whimpers are getting higher and higher, her entrance getting tighter as she clenches around him and Frank can't help but wonder how that would feel around his cock.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts, losing enough of his careful control that his hips surge forward but there's nothing there to grant him the friction that he craves.

Instead, he angles his head back up and leans in to press his lips to hers, pouring all of the desperation and wanting into the kiss. It's sloppy, he can tell, not his finest kissing, but it's hot and frantic and she responds to it, meeting him hotly and drawing rapid, demanding kisses from him, all the while mewling into his mouth, delicate _ahs_ blurring with deep moans to create an erotic melody.

He can't get over how fucking _vocal_ she is, every bit of pleasure adding to the symphony of Laurel. She's a multitude of breaths and sighs and moans and desperate groans and every last sound does him in, tightens the pressure and fogs his mind.

But then the song stutters, pauses. Gives way to a break of pregnant silence. And then, "Oh God," she groans after a moment. "Ah, yes, I- I'm close."

Good as his word, Frank sinks a third finger into her and speeds up his rhythm, driving into her at a punishing speed and those delicate muscles are starting to flutter around him and he's pushing her to the very edge, he knows he is. "I want to see you come hard," he tells her, voice commanding and stern. "I want you to come so fuckin' hard, you forget your own name."

"Oh, fuck… Frank… I'm going to…" Her moans pitch higher at his crass words and finally crest into a series of moans, and then her joints lock, her thighs tighten and her pussy clenches around him. Frank doesn't let up his rhythm, he continues to pump into her as fresh wetness gushes over his hand and her walls pulsate rapidly. He watches her face, her fluttering eyelids and her flushed cheeks.

"Oh," she moans breathlessly as the clenching becomes weaker and the waves of her orgasm grow smaller until they're just gentle swells lapping at the edge of the beach.

Frank stills his fingers, knowing how sensitive she'll be right now, but doesn't remove them from her, focuses entirely on the feeling of the muscles relaxing around him, the final twitches and spasms subsiding.

Her muscles loosen, and she becomes heavier around him, the rise and fall of her chest slowing gradually. Frank watches her come down from her dizzying high and is astonished to find that the word beautiful crosses his mind before he can come to his senses and replace it with the more suitable _fuck-hot_.

He's scrambling to find the right words to say in that moment when suddenly the sound of a door slamming upstairs reminds them that they're still very much in a public stairwell. Laurel's eyes snap to Frank's, alarmed. He shoots her a look, silently telling her not to freak out, and sets her down, holding her arm until he's sure she can stand, and then he adjusts his belt while she pulls her panties and jeans back into place.

She takes a short step backwards and they watch each other as they suck in quick, shallow breaths. Footsteps on the stairs above them mean that Frank doesn't have time to tell her to fix the sex hair and, moments later, a man gives them the side-eye as he descends, his humor-filled expression telling Frank that he knows _exactly_ what's occurring.

When the stranger disappears from sight, Frank glances over at Laurel to find her watching him. He catches her eye and grins at her, the most charming smile in his arsenal. Her careful exterior cracks a little and she smiles back. "I'd say your place or mine, but mine's a lot closer," she says dryly. "So… you wanna come up?"

Frank's smile turns into a wicked grin, and he raises an eyebrow at her. "Oh, I want to come up. I want to come up _and_ go down."

Laurel laughs but Frank sees her eyes go dark at the very idea of him, his head, his mouth between her legs, and the tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips. The sight of her, in her post-orgasm glow, still wanting more of him almost makes him shiver; if any of his arousal had tapered off by being interrupted by a stranger, it is very much back now.

He follows her up the stairs like she's got him on a leash and Laurel doesn't waste any time with formalities. She leads him straight to her bedroom, pulls that high-necked top over her head, revealing a simple, black lace bra – matching the panties – that provides a stark contrast with her pale, creamy skin.

"Fuck," Frank says in a low voice. "You are seriously fuckin' hot, you know that?"

Laurel just grins. "I know." She comes back to his side, drawn like a magnet, and makes quick work of his belt, finally managing to get the damn thing off. Before Frank can even register what's happening, her hand is in his pants, on his cock, starting to stroke in earnest. He groans out, relishing the friction he's been waiting for since before she'd even kissed him.

"Uh… Laurel?" Frank manages to grind out in between groans after a moment.

"What?" she asks, an edge of frustration leaking into her voice.

"Nothin'," he replies quickly and then laughs slightly. "Jus' checkin' I can use your name this time."

She huffs slightly. "You're not as funny as you think you are." Suddenly, her hand is gone and Frank opens his mouth to apologise for his smart ass comment (or complain, he's not really sure what would have come out first), but she cuts him off: "Relax, I'm not done with you yet," she tells him, and instead her hand is on his chest and she's pushing him to her bed, encouraging him to lie down.

When he's on his back, she straddles him, and its reminiscent of Lola in the club but now she's not Lola and he hasn't paid her and he's not recording her. Her hands come to his biceps, and she slides her palms up his arms in unison, gradually moving his arms to rest above his head and she's trapping them there, long fingers wrapped around his wrists like cuffs. She leans in, kisses his lips without letting up the pressure holding his hands captive. Her hips grind down on him, so close to where he wants her to be and Frank's whole body is thrumming with a desperate need to have his cock inside of her.

And then, just when things are starting to get _really_ interesting, the mood is sliced by a ringing sound, and his pocket starts vibrating.

Laurel's kiss halts in its tracks and she half sits and looks at him, silently asks what to do.

"Leave it," Frank mutters, and she obeys, leaning back in to kiss him again.

This kiss doesn't last for long.

"For God's sake," Laurel grumbles when it starts ringing for the second time. Her hands release his and she sits back on her ankles. "Is it urgent?"

Frank sighs, retrieves his cell from his pocket. "It's Annalise." He knows she won't stop calling until she gets what she wants so he reluctantly hits accept and holds the cell to his ear.

"What?" he snaps, more angrily than he should.

"Have you got eyes on her, Frank?"

"What?"

"The girl? Lola? Have you got eyes on her?" Annalise demands, frustrated at his apparent cluelessness.

Frank looks at Laurel, sitting half-naked in front of him, only moments away from finally letting him screw her. Annalise's timing couldn't be more shitty. "Yes. Yeah, I do."

"Good. Okay. Don't do anything stupid," his boss warns.

"Yeah, yeah, I won't."

"Okay. See you tomorrow." The line goes dead.

Frank rakes a hand through his beard, drops the phone on the floor beside the bed, and turns his attention back to Laurel again, bringing his palms to sit on her waist.

"Really?" she says, and, all of a sudden, she sounds exhausted.

"I couldn't not answer. She would keep callin' all night," Frank excuses.

"I'm not deaf, Frank. 'Eyes on' me? Really?" She gestures to herself. "That's what this is? You're distracting me?" Shakes her head. "I thought… I thought maybe you actually wanted this."

Frank frowns, surprised that she'd jumped to that conclusion when the truth is that he's breaking every rule Annalise set by being here. "Laurel, I do. Of course I fuckin' want this."

"Is this like some twisted lawyer game? Is 'eyes on' code for something?"

"No! No, I-"

"It's alright," she says and her voice is surprisingly calm. "I'm not mad. Not at you, anyway. I mean, I should've expected this, right? You recorded it last time, and I should have learned from that." The girl nods, lips pressed together again, that hungry glint in her eyes dissolved to ash, hidden amongst the grey-blue depths.

"No, Laurel, that's not… She told me not to talk to you, but I needed to ask you. About Reed."

"Well, you asked, and I answered. And that's as far as this goes."

Frank looks up at her from his submissive position, trying to edge back to light-hearted. "You gonna make me leave with blue balls again? Gonna make me do the walk of shame?"

Her reply is cold: "Like you deserve anything else." She swings a leg over him and grabs her top off the floor, slides it back on, and Frank finds himself cursing that demure neckline for the second time that evening.

"Fine." He sits up, pulls up his fly to cover his aching cock. "But I came here to talk; nothin' else. The rest of it was all you." He stands up and walks back to her side again. Though she flinches away slightly, he bends his head so he can murmur his next sentence in low, seductive tones. "And eventually you're gonna admit to yourself that that was the best damn orgasm of your life, an' then you're gonna come back to me because that?" Frank raises his eyebrows at her impassive face. "That was jus' the start of how good I can make you feel."

Frank's got to hand it to the girl; she's good at a poker face. She doesn't move a muscle; her face doesn't twitch out of the perfect blank mask it's set itself in. But, just before he turns away from her and sees himself out, he notices the hairs raise on her arms, the hue of her cheeks become a half-shade darker and he's sure that this won't be the last time he makes Laurel Castillo scream like that.

He just wishes he didn't have to walk away from her when he's so hot and bothered himself.

 **Just so you all know, work is kicking my ass at the minute so I can only write at weekends. I will try to update ASAP but I expect the next update will be around May 20th. I'm so sorry it can't be quicker. My big deadline will be over at the end of this month though so then it will be full steam ahead until the story is complete :) And don't worry, I will not leave you hanging too long, I have a full plan and will absolutely finish this fic!**

 **In the meantime, if you've got time to leave a review I would love to hear what you think - I was especially nervous about posting this one for some reason so I hope that you liked it :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here we go, the next chapter! Sorry about the wait, there should be much more regular updates from here on in now. Hopefully weekly updates until the end :) Thank you all for still reading - I'd love to hear what you think in the reviews! Or, as always, find me on tumblr as flaurelcasfino.**

* * *

The next morning comes far too soon for Frank, whose sleep had been restless to say the least. Even the quickest wank in history hadn't helped him to cool off and he'd gone to bed frustrated and on edge.

He's still grumpy when he meets Bonnie at the courthouse, where she waits with a coffee for him.

"You look tired," she remarks when he takes the drink from her with a quiet thank you.

"Yeah, runnin' around after Annalise all night'll do that to you," he only half-lies, and they fall into step as they head towards the room they'll be in for the better part of the morning.

"Was it for Gina's case?"

"Nah, Dryden o' course. The stripper again."

"Then forget all about it, Frank, we've got a job to do. It's Gina's case today, not Dryden." Bonnie gives him the side-eye, assesses him. "I'm going up front, you're too distracted."

"Be my guest," Frank tells her.

They find their seats and flick through the paperwork, refamiliarizing themselves with the minutiae of Gina's poison aspirin case, just in case any of it could help them win. Both Frank and Bonnie know Annalise's plan of action – discredit the witness, present a new suspect, bury the evidence – but they're still unsure of exactly how she plans to do all of this.

Annalise arrives a short while later with Gina and greets them cordially. The three of them go through the proceedings with Gina to help her understand how things are likely to go, but Frank can barely get a word in edgeways, so his mind starts to wander.

Predictably, it wanders back to Laurel.

The remaining 1Ls who are still competing to be dubbed part of the next Keating 4 are due to come and watch the trial, given that they helped prepare a defense for Gina. Technically, that should include Laurel Castillo, but Frank wonders whether she'll show, given that she thinks Annalise is using him as some kind of surveillance to keep her in check. He almost hopes she stays home; he's not sure he has the energy to face her this morning.

But, of course, she shows up. In fact, she's one of the first ones through the door when they let the general public in and she takes the row behind him with the tall friend Frank had seen her with on campus a few days earlier. He ignores her as thoroughly as she ignores him, and he is thankful he doesn't have to exchange furious, awkward glances with her all morning.

When the trial begins, he follows Bonnie's instructions and remains on the back bench, obediently taking copious notes in a notebook, writing down even the most pointless and pedantic of details, in case something comes up that helps their defense. He's one hundred percent focussed on the case and not even Prom Queen's dramatic entrance to the court room derails his single-mindedness.

"She's colour-blind," Michaela whispers urgently to him, words pouring from her mouth without stopping for breath. "Tanner, she's colour-blind. She wouldn't be able to identify the pill as the poison aspirin because she wouldn't know what colour it was."

"You sure?" Frank checks.

"Positive."

He takes her information, passes it on to Bonnie and Annalise, and diligently notes down the following interrogation in the book.

For a moment, Frank can see Annalise through the eyes of the law students behind him, sitting on the very edges of their seats. She's tremendous, a real force to be reckoned with, framing the questions perfectly even with no time at all to prepare what she would say. Miss Tanner, Gina's boss, is a mess under the pressure of Annalise's probing questions, stammering that, "Gina was acting nervous," but undoubtedly unable to deny that Annalise was right, and her testimony is worthless.

When the judge dismisses them all for the day, Frank finally lets himself look back at the rows behind him, but he only manages to catch a glimpse of her back, her dark cascading hair, disappearing through the ornate doors. And he knows it's better that way.

* * *

Aside from ignoring her in court, Frank doesn't see or hear from Laurel for a few days.

He thinks of her often, though. He's like a horny teenager, picturing her in his mind's eye as he jerks off multiple times per day. He's recalled their time in the stairwell together so many times that it's practically burnt onto the inside of his eyelids. His body just won't let him forget his deep-rooted desire for the girl he can't have.

Thankfully, Annalise doesn't pester him too much about the stripper's alibi. She checks in every day, asks Frank if he's still got eyes on her. Frank has to hide his dry smile at the fact that Annalise herself is laying eyes on the girl everyday inside of the courtroom, but of course he says nothing, simply confirms Lola's still in town and gets back to Gina's case. Frank knows that, with Dryden's trial date only a week away, he'll have to face up to it eventually, but for now he's happy that Lola – and, by extension, Laurel – can lay low for a bit.

Gina's case has been a good distraction for Frank, particularly given how well it's been going. The students this year are proving themselves surprisingly useful and one unnaturally well-groomed 1L's digging pays off big time on the Wednesday. Connor Walsh's stolen emails from the victim's business partner all but put the nail in the coffin of the prosecution's case and when they leave the courthouse that day, Frank's in a mood to celebrate.

He glances over his shoulder and sees Laurel chatting to her tall friend; the kid off the wait list, Frank remembers now. Almost as though she feels his gaze, she glances over, and he catches her eye. Hoping that she's ready to talk and put this stupid grudge behind them, he shoots her his best effortless smirk.

"Not so fast," Annalise's voice comes from behind him, breaking the moment that lingers between him and Laurel.

"What?" he protests, turning to look at his boss.

Annalise just rolls her eyes. "Stop eyeing up the students; I gotta talk to you at the office."

Frank's good mood deflates quickly when he realizes she's going to want to talk about Lola. "Sure," he says with a sober nod. "I'll meet you there."

Annalise nods back and heads out silently. But when he looks back over at Laurel, she's disappearing into the ladies' bathroom and he draws the line at following her into a public restroom, so he resigns himself to drinking alone that night and heads out.

Back at the office, Frank busies himself with paperwork while he waits for Annalise to call him in. He hopes she's beginning to see sense and realize that there's not much more they can do to convince Lola to testify.

When she invites him into her office about twenty minutes later, Frank isn't surprised when she knocks back a few mouthfuls of vodka before getting straight down to business. "Lola, the stripper. You haven't spoken to her in a few days now, right?"

Frank snorts under his breath; she doesn't know the half of it. "Uh… no. You told me to back off."

"Good, okay. I have a plan."

"Yeah?" He tries to sound only casually interested, crosses his arms across his chest.

"We're going to ask her nicely one more time. We'll get the DA's office to offer her immunity for the prostitution in exchange for the testimony," Annalise says, her brow set with determination. "Then you will tell her that if she won't come and testify for us, we'll tear up her immunity deal and go to the cops. We'll tell them all about her illegitimate activities _and_ her suspicious involvement with Reed and they'll take her in for questioning and see her as an alternative suspect. I know some cops pretty well, I can ask them to scare her enough to make her realize that she should testify…"

Frank's shaking his head before she's even finished. "Annalise… we can't do that."

Her sharp eyes look up at him and then they suddenly lose their vicious edge and becoming despairing instead. "We've got to do something. We need this; we've got nothing else." Her fingers come up to rake through her hair, gripping the strands so hard, Frank thinks she might tug the whole wig off. She stares unseeingly at the empty glass on her desk. "Richard… he's innocent. And he chose me because he knows me; he trusts me to help him. And he's a nice guy, Frank. His daughter's about to have a baby, his first grandchild, he was telling everyone about it months ago, due in October… he was so excited. And now… now he'll get life in prison and he'll never…"

"Annalise…" Frank starts again, trying to talk her down from the ledge she's balancing on.

The other woman looks up at him again and her expression is haunting. "We're going to lose this case."

"No, we're not. We'll find a way," Frank tells her solemnly. "Jus'… not this way. The girl's got rights 'ere. If she don't agree to testify then we've gotta find somethin' else. We can subpoena her properly, but she'll just refuse on the grounds of self-incrimination."

"I know the fifth amendment, Frank," Annalise snaps at him.

"We'll find a way," he repeats.

Annalise sighs. "How?"

The room falls quiet for a moment before Frank remembers what Laurel had told him on Sunday evening in her apartment. "I might have somethin'," he says hesitantly, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "Parks… he said that Reed only slept with strippers since his wife left him. He said that Reed told him it had to be impersonal, detached. Sleepin' with your best friend's wife is hardly impersonal."

Annalise ponders that for a moment. "When did you talk to Parks about this?"

"After we went there, Sunday. I asked 'im if he knew anythin' else about Reed," Frank lies, hoping his fabrication won't come back to bite him.

"He might have been lying."

"He might've. But he might not. What if Reed ain't the lover? What if they've got it wrong?"

"But Mrs Dryden…"

"Have you asked her, outright, if she was sleepin' with the guy?"

She's shaking her head before Frank's even finished asking the question. "No, but Richard knew. He said it in our first meeting, he told me; he knows it's his supposed motive."

"But he doesn't seem mad enough to be driven to murder over it. When we saw 'im the other day, he was awfully apologetic about the strippers for a guy who just supposedly killed his wife's lover 'cos they were unfaithful."

She nods slowly. "If he was mad enough to kill over his wife's affair then he wouldn't be so remorseful for sleeping with a whore."

"Exactly."

But Annalise frowns and rubs her temples. "That's hardly a defense I can use in a court of law."

"So put Dryden on the stand."

"What, and let the prosecution tear him apart? I tried questioning him, he's a bag of nerves; the jury would pass a guilty verdict before lunch."

"Well, we gotta do somethin' an' we can't keep goin' after the girl."

Annalise sighs, thinks for a moment and then says, "Fine. I'll set up a meeting with Richard as soon as possible and ask him about it. We'll see what he has to say and go from there."

"An' the stripper?"

"Do you think there's anything we can do to convince her to take that stand? Anything?"

Frank shrugs uselessly. "She seems pretty sure she won't do it."

"Offer her immunity, see if she bites."

"But the DA's office hasn't approved…"

"I can get the DA's office to approve it if that's what's going to work," Annalise bites out, becoming irritated. "I can do my job, Frank, now you've got to at least try to do yours."

Frank opens his mouth to argue that he _has_ been trying – really damn hard, too – but he's interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

"Come in," Annalise calls.

Bonnie sticks her head in and her eyes flicker briefly to Frank before settling on Annalise. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's a student here wanting to talk to you."

Annalise groans. "Ugh. Tell them no deadline extensions means no extensions and that's final. My office is closed, they can come and bother me during my office hours at the university."

Bonnie hesitates before responding, "She insists it's important. Says it's about Gina's trial."

"Frank? Can you get rid of this kid?" Annalise stands up and exits through the back door through to the kitchen, pausing to add, "I've got to go get ready for the Dean's cocktail party."

Left without a choice, Frank nods and turns to the other door, brushing past Bonnie to scare the kid into taking a hike, but he stops short when he sees her. "What are you doin' here?"

Laurel looks up and her face drops into a thunderous glare, though her eyes seem to somehow remain soft. "Not you. I need to talk to Professor Keating. It's important."

Bonnie sweeps past and goes into the kitchen to busy herself making coffee, but Frank catches the smug look on her face that tells him she's enjoying his discomfort a great deal. And she doesn't even know half of what's really going on.

Frank sighs. "Well, she's busy so you got me."

"Yeah, busy calling up the DA's office for an immunity deal for 'the stripper'," Laurel remarks sourly, fingers closing around air quotations to mark his own words.

Frank glances over his shoulder down the hall and into the kitchen, checking to make sure that Bonnie isn't listening in. Then he grabs Laurel's wrist and tugs her down the hall, out onto the front porch and away from Bonnie's prying ears. "How long you been eavesdroppin'?" he hisses once they're alone.

"Relax," she mutters back. "I didn't hear anything I don't already know. But I really do need to talk to Professor Keating."

"What's this about?" Frank demands.

"Gina," Laurel says, her voice losing the angry edge for a moment. "I think…" She hesitates, sighs. "I think she's guilty."

Frank has to turn away from her to hide his smirk. She's astute for a 1L, he'll give her that, but really? That's what's so urgent? "Oh really?" he says, pacing down the porch, sticking his hands in his pockets. "What makes you think that?"

"I saw Gina and Kauffman's wife together in the ladies' room. They seemed…" She pauses for a second, searches for the right word. "Close." She stops again but continues when Frank doesn't respond. "I only saw them together for a second, I know. But… well, it makes sense: a wife gets so tired of her husband cheating that she teams up with his mistress for revenge."

"Fine," Frank relents, leaning on the railing and glancing at her. "Say you're right. What do you expect us to do about it? Put you on the stand so the jury _definitely_ has enough evidence to convict Gina?"

"No, obviously not. I just…" She pauses, and he can feel her eyes on him as he forces himself not to meet her gaze as the realisation hits her. "You already knew."

"I didn't say that."

"Right," Laurel says, and she seems stung by the reality of the situation, much to Frank's surprise; he'd thought she was tougher than that. She reforms her voice, becomes strong and sarcastic instead. "Because then you'd actually be admitting out loud to defending a guilty client, and who really has the time to deal with the moral repercussions of that?" She hitches her bag up her shoulder and turns, heads for the steps, makes it clear that she's done with this conversation.

But Frank's not; he scoffs at her words. "You hypocrite."

She turns back, looks at him with those wide eyes.

He doesn't wait for her to ask what he means. "You got the gall to come in here an' accuse me of lacking morals when you won't help stop an innocent man from goin' to jail?"

Her jaw sets a little, her lips downturn.

"I didn't think you, of all people, would turn out to be one of those kids," Frank continues. "The smart, idealistic girls who come to law school to help the less fortunate. The little girls from Ivy-League schools and sheltered childhoods who want to give everyone a fair trial, save the innocents, back pockets stuffed with Daddy's money." He appraises her with harsh eyes. "It's funny. None o' the other girls like that have had a second job of taking off their clothes for cash. You're a moral prostitute."

"Ssh," she hisses at him, eyes glaring, well aware that Bonnie and Annalise are just inside. She crosses the porch to stand inches away from him, looks him in the face and whispers, "You don't know anything about me."

"Still going with that line?" he shoots back, matching her low tone. "Like it or not, I do know you now. I know you're so goddamn stubborn that you can't even let yourself feel happy. I know that you're smart; smart enough to see the big picture, always. I know that you've got a fuckin' warped sense of humour." He bends his head so that his lips are at her ear and their cheeks almost touch. "I know that you won't kiss strangers, but you'll damn well kiss me. I know every inch, every detail of your body under those clothes, an' I know how to make you wet, make you moan my name. Don't think I don't pay attention. I may not be the smartest guy, but I _do_ pay attention, I notice shit. And I've been noticing you. All of you."

She exhales in a sudden burst, her shaky breath warming his neck and sending tingles through his blood.

He carries on. "So I know you, Laurel. An' I know that you have a choice here. You've got the opportunity to do the right thing here but you're turning your back on it." Reluctantly, he takes a half step back so that he can appraise her face, which is a careful mask. He stays close, keeps his voice level and low, dulcet tones harsh and hiding some endless emotion he's struggling to hold in. "You know, you can judge us for defending guilty people all you like, but maybe before you bitch at me about it you should take a long hard look in the mirror. Morality don't have an off switch, you know. Right and wrong is still right and wrong whether you want to face it or not. Clearly, I choose not. What do you choose?"

She nods, cracks the mask, smiles humorlessly. "And here I thought you were going to back off getting me on that stand; I must have misheard."

"Yeah, well… That was before you started goin' all black and white on me." He shakes his head. "I'm fed up of keepin' your secret, Laurel. I'm sick of havin' your back in this."

"Then don't," she retorts quietly.

"It ain't that simple, though, is it?"

"Of course it is. You tell Professor Keating all about the stripper that's been hiding in plain sight all along. You're the hero, I'm the slut."

He sighs, realizing that he's hurt her yet again. They always end up here, emotions getting heated and then him saying something he can't take back. "Laurel-"

"No, really. If that what it comes down to – my secret or your job – we both know what you're going to choose, so just go ahead and do it. Why don't you handcuff me right now?" She holds out her wrists between them, her breathing heavy and her face stern, and hiding a wealth of insecurities, panic and fear. "Take me to Keating, let her threaten me, tell me to testify or she'll fail me, drop me from the course I'm working so hard to be on."

"Laurel, I'm not-"

"What are you waiting for?" she hisses, pushing her hands into his chest. "I'm giving myself up, here. Surrendering. You win. Isn't that what you want?"

"No," he snaps at her, finally grabbing her wrists and holding them tight between their bodies. "You know it's not. We're past that now; we both know it. I've been on your side every time, I'm not gonna turn on you now. You may not like me, but I…" He halts his words abruptly, bites his tongue, stops himself from admitting that he sure as hell likes her. The moment lingers, the words hanging painfully obvious between them.

She's quiet for a moment, but then frowns, scowls at him. "Then what? We're at a stalemate?"

"Somethin' like that." They're both quiet for a moment, breathing in unison hidden in the corner of Annalise's front porch. Her chest is heaving quietly before him, her lips are parted slightly, and he can't tear his eyes from them. He can feel her pulse throbbing through her wrists, rapid and hot, and he doesn't want to let go of her.

But, somehow, he does. "Go home," he mutters, dropping her hands between them. "And forget about Gina." He turns away from her and heads for the door, doesn't watch her leave. But he hears her sniff quietly, heartbreakingly, and then her footsteps head back down the stairs and out along the street.

Bonnie's sitting at her desk when Frank lets himself back in. "Did you knock her up or something?" she asks dryly but there's a smug, gleeful tone to her voice that tells Frank she enjoys observing his little dramas.

"No. Shut up, Bon."

"You really need to stop screwing the students."

Frank shoots her a look and busies himself tidying his desk.

Moments later, Annalise enters the room, dressed to the nines in a black cocktail dress, make up freshly applied.

"Lookin' good," Frank compliments. "Where's Sam?"

She sighs, her often-absent husband a constant source of irritation. "He's going to meet me there." Her eyes turn to Frank. "What did the kid want?"

He rolls his eyes, puts his bravado back on. "She worked out that Gina probably did it and was having a moral dilemma."

Annalise's eyes widen slightly. "How'd she work that one out?"

"She saw her and Kauffman's wife together in the restroom, thought they might've teamed up to get revenge."

"Huh. Did you sort it?"

"Yeah, she's gone."

"Good." Annalise gives him and Bonnie a half-hearted wave. "Well, I'd better go. I'll see you both tomorrow." She heads to the door, but the sound of her heels clacking pauses and she turns back for a moment. "You know, that's a pretty smart deduction. Who was it?"

"Uh… Laurel," Frank replies. "Castillo."

"Frank's girl," Bonnie chips in with a smirk and he shoots her a glare.

Annalise raises an eyebrow at Frank. "Well, maybe your taste is maturing if you're finally weeding out the airheads." Then she sighs and shakes her head. "But seriously, Frank. Stop it or we'll have a sexual harassment suit on our hands. See you tomorrow," she says again, and this time actually leaves the house.

When she's gone, Frank kicks his colleague's chair as he walks past to the kitchen, in need of a stiff drink of his own. "Thanks a lot, Bon."

She grins but doesn't look up from her work. "Anytime."


	7. Chapter 7

**This is an absolute beast of a chapter (double the length of chapter 6!) so I hope it's worth the wait!**

On Thursday morning, Frank wakes to two text messages on his cell, both sent within the last twenty minutes. One, predictably, is from Annalise, asking him to meet her at the county jail since they're not due in court until 1pm so she wants to see Richard first thing. He replies quickly to confirm that he'll meet her there shortly, and then he addresses the more unexpected message.

 _We need to talk,_ is all it says. But it's from her, so the simple message becomes intriguing and exciting all at the same time. It's embarrassing the effect just four words from her can have on him.

He hits reply and taps out a response: _Working this morning but I'll see you in court at 1pm? F_

Laurel's response is immediate: _No._ _Somewhere private._

 _I can come to yours after court is finished? F_

 _Maybe I could come to your place this time._

Frank smiles a little at the forwardness, though inside he's sure she just wants to be able to escape him if she gets flighty. He wants to diffuse the awkwardness between them with a joke about giving _his_ neighbours a show this time, but thankfully Frank has learned a little about women over the years and he thinks that would only serve to fuel the fire of her fury. So he sends her his address, minus any lewd comments.

When no reply comes through, Frank finally rouses himself from his bed and hits the shower, preparing for a busy day ahead.

"Thank you for making the time to see us," Annalise says to Richard when the three of them are all sitting round the familiar metal table, Richard's now-frail wrists cuffed to the centre.

"It's not as though I had to cancel any prior engagements," he jokes weakly, though he doesn't smile.

Annalise opens up her notepad with her prepared questions and then continues to search through her purse on her lap. "Do you mind if I record the conversation, Richard?" Catching the surprise on his face, she hastens to add, "Not that you're in trouble. It may help us in court to have your original answers to these questions."

Frank nods when Richard looks at him, backing up Annalise's story. He knows not to mention that they're really here to get his first reactions to discussing his wife's cheating. To record and retain his emotional reaction to his supposed motive, hoping that it's not the kind of anger that could drive a man to murder. Frank had questioned whether such a recording would be admissible as evidence, but Annalise had waved him off and told him that was for the judge to decide. Frank could read between the lines, though. He could tell that, for once, she was almost as unsure as he was, but she was also pretty desperate.

"Damn it," Annalise murmurs a moment later. "Frank, can you record this? I must've left my phone in the car."

"Sure." Frank pulls out his cell, sets it to airplane mode to prevent any interruptions and hits record.

"The time is 9.20am and the date is Thursday September 21st," Annalise says smoothly, for the purpose of the recording. "This is Annalise Keating and I'm with Richard Dryden and Frank Delfino. Now, Mr Dryden, please confirm that we have not discussed this meeting beforehand and you do not know what this conversation is in relation to?"

"Uh… I do not," Richard says, leaning into talk to Frank's cell like a microphone.

Frank shakes his head at him, and Richard leans back again.

"No," he repeats carefully. "I do not."

"We want to talk to you about your wife," Annalise tells him then. "How did you know about her affair with Edward Reed?"

Richard looks surprised to be asked this question. He shuffles in his chair uncomfortably. "Well, she told me."

"She told you she was having an affair?"

"She said she felt guilty, she didn't want there to be any secrets in our relationship anymore."

Annalise nods understandingly. "And what was your reaction to hearing about this? Mr Reed was one of your closest friends, after all."

"Well…" The man's shoulders sag and his eyes become a little vacant, as he remembers. "I was angry… upset. Embarrassed. Of course I was. But mostly… I felt guilty."

"Guilty?" Her eyebrows frown at the unexpected response.

"I'd let Mandy down. I had secrets, too, but I couldn't tell her. How can you tell your wife that you're visiting a strip club multiple times a week? It was my fault our relationship was failing, I'd been pushing her away, I knew it."

"Did you fight? You and Mandy? After she'd told you?"

Richard pauses, his brow furrows. "Not really… I… I told her I was going to sleep on the couch. I went out for the evening to clear my head… distract myself…"

"But what about before you went out?"

"Well, she yelled at me, sure. She asked why wasn't I angry, why wasn't I furious with her, with Eddie…"

"And why weren't you?"

He shrugs. "Shock? I don't know. I love my wife, I really do, I didn't want to lose her. But I was numb to it." The man looks between Frank and Annalise. "I've never been reactive, I'm a thinker. I just… I needed to process what had happened, I needed to get my thoughts under control, understand what had gone so wrong and what we could do to fix our marriage. Because it was always fixable, you see. I'd never dream of leaving Miranda, no matter what she's done."

"What about Mr Reed? Were you so forgiving of his wrongdoing, too?" Annalise probed.

Richard sighed. "I was furious, Ms Keating. That night, I lay on my sofa and I hated him so much that I could feel it, as though the hatred were a physical object crushing my chest. That he could come to dinner every week – he came almost every Friday since his wife left him three years ago – and sit opposite me and Miranda, and sometimes our children, too, and laugh and joke and all the while he'd been…" He shakes his head. "But… it made sense."

"What do you mean?"

"Well… Eddie took his wife leaving hard. Mandy and I, after a year of him moping around, we suggested he might try to date someone. We set him up with some of Mandy's friends, but he was never interested in getting to know them. Well." He stops himself and Frank notices Richard's neck turn a little pink. "He would… get to know them in certain ways."

Annalise raises her eyebrows at him. "In the biblical sense?"

"Exactly. And then he'd never call them and… oh, Mandy would get so cross with him. 'That Eddie,' she'd say, and she'd always have her hands on her hips. She'd tell me about whatever friend of hers he'd 'used' that time. I'd laugh and tell her that it takes two to tango, but Mandy would get so angry about these things. Sex is sacred, she used to tell me. Not to be taken lightly. And Eddie would take it so lightly; it's all he could do, you see. He didn't want to get to know these women, he was still pining after Brit. But, like he said, a man's got needs. That's what he said when he took me there, to the club. He was the one who introduced me to those girls, he started our Tuesday nights out; we told Mandy we were at the bar." Richard's voice clogged then, and he stopped, face falling. "She'll be so mad at me now that she knows the truth about those nights out. Is she cross?"

Annalise glances to Frank, whose lips set a thin line, hidden in the coarseness of his beard.

"Tell me, please," Richard begs, the recording practically forgotten, the screen of Frank's phone long since faded to black, though still catching every word. "Does Mandy hate me? For the… girls?"

"But if Mandy hated casual sex so much, why'd it make sense for her to sleep with Reed?" Frank asks, putting off answering his question by prompting the inmate to complete his unfinished response.

Richard just looked at him sadly. "I slept with eighteen-year-olds on a weekly basis. Eventually… Mandy and I just… didn't have sex anymore. I wasn't taking care of her. If she wanted someone then… well, Eddie would be the only man she knew who would jump at the chance of no-strings-attached sex." He sighs. "She hates me, doesn't she?" His eyes drift to his lawyer. "Annalise?"

"You're a lucky man, Richard," she responds. "All your wife wants is for her husband to be free. Her character witness is glowing." Annalise smiles softly. "I think you'll be okay. Your wife is more loyal than I'd be."

Richard nods, a small smile lifting just one side of his dry lips. "Did you have any other questions?"

"Yes, actually." Annalise glances down at her notepad, scrawls a note to herself and then elaborates: "What did Edward Reed say when you spoke to him about the affair? Was he sorry? Did you fight?"

Richard stares at Annalise for a moment, looks vaguely affronted.

"Richard?"

"Annalise…" he says, and his voice is gravely serious. "I never spoke to Eddie about it. He was dead the very next morning."

"A mixed bag then…" Frank says as they leave the jail, his downbeat tone not matching his optimistic words.

Annalise shakes her head and comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps. "His wife told him about the affair the same night he was murdered, that is not a mixed bag, Frank. That's the nail in the coffin for this case. We can't put him on the stand, the prosecution would have a field day with that."

"Surely it might come out when they put his wife on the stand anyway? Better he can defend himself?"

"Defend himself, how?" Annalise snaps. "Not one word he said in there helps. He admitted he was angry with Reed the night of his murder and then he stormed out of the house."

"But he went to sleep with Lola…"

"Who won't testify and confirm that's where he went."

"He also said it made sense for his wife to sleep with the guy…"

"He's had months to think on it, Frank. There's no saying that's what he thought when Miranda actually told him." She sighs and looks skyward. "I don't know what we can do. Miranda's our key witness but when the prosecution cross her, this might all come out and Richard will only look guiltier than he already does. And he already looks pretty damn guilty."

"We just gotta find a way to make someone else look guiltier," Frank suggests, frowning. "Or make Dryden look innocent enough to cast doubt."

Annalise thinks for a long while, staring out across the road, and then looks to Frank. "Kauffman's case doesn't reconvene until 1pm. Until then, dig up everything you can on Edward Reed. Ex-lovers, girlfriends, friends, business partners, enemies. His ex-wife. I don't care how you do it, just… find someone, or something, that can be useful to us, Frank. I'll see you at the courthouse."

He starts at the police station, asks to see the paperwork for the State VS Dryden case. When the woman at the desk refuses, he flirts a little, pretends like he's from the DA's office until she hands him the file – and her number – with a furtive, "Just ten minutes, okay?"

He flicks through the file on the bench, taking photos of anything useful on his cell, but comes out with little more than he went in with. He sits in his car and flicks through the pictures he took of the photos in the file. Graphic photographs of Reed's corpse, close-ups of his neck, which had been stabbed violently in the side several times before the attacker had moved on to stab him in the chest, according to the coroner's report. Whoever did this was angry, that was for sure. Also, the notes stated, the attacker must have been known to the victim for him to have allowed them close enough to have stabbed him in the chest. Far more common for people to be stabbed in the back, or have their neck sliced by someone sneaking up behind them.

Frank knows he needs more than anything he'd find in that folder to have a hope of finding something useful. And he does have one other potential lead on Edward Reed.

He seeks her out in the corridor of the courthouse shortly before 1pm; finds her at the edge of a small group of students, ignoring them in favour of something clearly more interesting on her phone. He taps her shoulder. "Can I talk to you?"

"Uh…" Laurel looks at her classmates who are glancing over at them curiously.

"It's about the assignment," he lies smoothly.

"Sure." She excuses herself from the conversation she wasn't participating in and follows him to a quiet corner, where her tone immediately turns slightly sour. "What do you want now?"

"Charmin'," Frank quips, feeling his lips lift automatically into that easy grin he sports when he wants to flirt something out of a woman. "Hello to you, too."

Laurel huffs and rolls her eyes; she's clearly not quite over their latest disagreement. "So you don't want something, then?"

Frank finds her anger mildly amusing, and surprisingly hot so he pokes the bear a little. "No, I do."

"Stop smirking like that," she says impatiently.

"Like what?"

"You're doing that smirk that I'm sure gets girls falling into bed with you, but it doesn't work on me so stop."

"I'm not-"

"You can get rid of the voice, too."

"Voice?"

"The smug, smarmy, I'm-better-than-you voice. Always comes with the smirk. It's like buy one, get one free."

Frank laughs once.

"See? I'm right, you can't argue with me."

"Regardless," Frank says, forcing himself to remove the so-called smirk, bringing the conversation detour to a close, "of whether you're right or not-"

"I am."

"I do need to ask you something."

"What?"

"At the club, what kind of data do you keep about your clients?"

She pauses, and her smile falls a little, leading Frank to think that Laurel wasn't expecting a question like that. When she answers, she's got a strange business-like tone to her voice. "Uh… it depends what they tell us. If they're a one-off and pay by cash then we won't take any details. If they're a regular then sometimes they set up a tab at the bar. Are you looking for someone in particular?"

Frank sighs. "Edward Reed."

"The dead guy?"

"That's the one."

"He was a regular, but I don't know if he had a tab or account." She stops herself, eyes suddenly narrowing suspiciously. "Why? What are you going to do with the information?"

"Nothin' yet. Jus' looking for somethin' to help us move the case on without… Lola's testimony." He eyes her meaningfully.

"I'll check the books," she offers after a small pause. "See what I can find."

"Thanks," Frank says, almost surprised that she's being cooperative.

"Yeah, well." There's an awkward pause, and Frank's just about to dismiss her back to her friends when she says, "We can still… talk… this evening, right?"

"O' course. What…?" Frank starts to ask what it's about when Laurel's eyes widen, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly, something over his shoulder having caught her eye.

He doesn't have to wait to find out what's got Laurel so antsy.

"Frank, did you find…?" Annalise's voice cuts over his shoulder, but she stops when she sees that Frank is otherwise engaged. "Oh. Good afternoon, Miss…"

"Castillo," Laurel supplies, holding her hand out politely, though she looks chagrined to have been caught whispering with Frank.

"Miss Castillo," Annalise repeats, ignoring the proffered hand.

"Laur- Miss Castillo just had some questions about the midterm assignment," Frank explains, to save face mostly. He knows that Annalise knows that he's lying through his teeth.

"Right. Well, I hope you're watching Gina's case closely, Miss Castillo. Learning something important; it might help." Annalise's gaze appraises the girl for a short moment, before flicking back to Frank. "Frank, we need to talk."

Effectively dismissed, Laurel ducks out of the conversation and returns to the group of students.

"Annalise, we were jus-"

"Save it, Frank. She's the one who came to the office last night?"

"Uh… yeah."

"Don't screw away _all_ of the smart girls, okay?" she instructs, but doesn't wait for an answer before asking her next question, something of an urgency in her voice. "Did you find anything on Reed?"

"Not really. I got a… a lead though," he murmurs back.

Annalise glares at him slightly. "Let's hope this one works out better than the last dead end you brought me." She paces ahead of him then, leading the way into the courtroom where Bonnie and Gina are waiting for them.

Frank sighs, straightens his tie and follows, taking his spot on the back bench and takes the notes Bonnie hands off to him, getting ready for the day's continuation of Gina's trial.

It doesn't go well.

Somehow, the prosecution has obtained video footage of Gina purchasing the exact same aspirin that was used to poison Arthur Kauffman, and suddenly the trial that had been going so well for them has unexpectedly put them on the back foot. Frank feels his jaw clench in frustration as he exchanges a nervous look with Bonnie; Annalise is going to have their asses for this.

"You had one job!" she fumes at Gina after court is done for the day, and their client is suddenly looking sheepish as Annalise's voice rises. "To let us know what bodies we needed to bury. Texts, calls, anything we needed to destroy, and you didn't. So guess what? Guess what!"

Frank glances up from where he's pretending to be reading a file to see Gina flinching up at Annalise. He can't help but wonder whether his boss's anger is entirely about Gina's case. After all, it's hardly the most hopeless case she's got in her docket right now.

"You go to jail," Annalise growls, "and I'm the shoddy lawyer who put you there!"

"I had a headache!" Gina argues, a rehearsed and bland line. "It isn't-"

"Stop lying!" Annalise snaps with a glare. She looks away, turns away from her client. "Get out. I can't think with you here."

Gina hesitates for a moment, but then rises, and Frank watches her as she exits, panic flaring across her face. He wonders, briefly, what Laurel would say were she privy to this particular conversation. What she would say if she heard Annalise talk about burying metaphorical bodies to keep the guilty out of jail. He puts his file down beside him, stays silent; he's not diving headfirst into these shark-infested waters.

Unfortunately, Bonnie doesn't share his trepidation. "She's not wrong, Annalise." Her voice cuts through the room. "It's aspirin, we all buy it."

Annalise doesn't look up, keeps her eyes on the paper in front of her. "What about you, Frank?" She's cold, accusing, barbed. "What slutty undergrad spread her legs and made you forget your job this time?"

They both know she's talking about Laurel, and, usually, this would be a fair comment, but with Laurel… it's different. Images of her flash through his mind, and he remembers the hurt in her eyes when she'd offered herself up to him the night before, calling herself the slut, and he feels defensive of the bold, stubborn girl. It's not her fault that he dropped the ball on this one; it's Gina's. "Hey, I grilled Gina the minute we got this case. She chose not to tell me this because, well, that's obvious, isn't it?"

Annalise stares at him, and Frank knows he's overstepped. "Just like you grilled this Lola girl?" Annalise says quietly. And her quiet anger is worse than the shouting.

He's backed into a corner and he knows it. "I'm sorry," he apologizes. "It won't happen again. But don't worry; we can fix this."

"We?" Annalise questions bitterly. "No. _I'll_ fix it. You stay here, collect the paycheck." And, with that, she's gone.

"Don't worry too much," Bonnie says without looking up. "She's been like that all day."

Frank just nods, pats Bonnie's shoulder in thanks, but he can't help but feel a little responsible for all the ways these cases are going wrong, and he knows that, for that, he deserves at least some of Annalise's wrath. He and Bonnie tidy up and head back to the house to complete their paperwork for the day.

At the Keating house, Frank gets stuck in with work, and soon finds himself lost in his Google searches for Edward Reed.

He finds the ex-wife, Brittany, with ease, but they can't present her as an alternate suspect; she's been living in London for the past two years and certainly wasn't in the country on the night of the murder.

Annalise's previous determination to put forward Lola as an alternative suspect isn't realistic, either, even if Frank did want to throw Laurel to the lions in that way. Even if they could find a prostitute Reed had slept with that would have a reasonable motive – self-defense, accidental manslaughter, theft – none of them would explain why they then stashed the murder weapon in Richard Dryden's car. Such a defense would only confuse a jury and make them _more_ likely to see Richard as guilty. It's another dead-end, but it's one Frank is thankful for in case Annalise hadn't wanted to let Lola off the hook yet.

The rest of his searches are fruitless, turning up speculation, articles and vile comments which contain few actual facts, and certainly nothing new. Nonetheless, Frank reads them all carefully, determined not to drop this ball, too.

 _Horrific stabbing… bled out slowly and painfully… murder weapon found in victim's friend's car… local university professor, Richard Dryden… scorned husband… looking at life in jail… possible death penalty under current Pennsylvania law…_

"Hey." Bonnie's voice cuts through his concentration and he glances up at her and then back down again.

"What?"

"I'm heading off. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Frank's head snaps up again. "What time is it?"

"Uh… it's almost six o'clock…"

"Shit," Frank snaps. He pinches the bridge of his nose and then turns the laptop to sleep, saving his endless internet tabs for perusal tomorrow.

Bonnie smirks from the doorway. "Hot date?"

"Like I'd tell you."

She smiles and turns to leave. "Oh!" She stops, turns back. "I almost forgot. Annalise wants you to copy the recording from the Dryden meeting to her laptop? She says you'll know what that means."

Frank groans, but nods. "Yeah, sure. I'll do it now. See you."

"Bye." Bonnie waves her fingers and heads out for the night.

Frantically, Frank goes into Annalise's office, fires up her laptop and logs in. He watches the little circle turn as it loads, conscious of time ticking. "Come on," he urges the computer quietly. He hadn't had word from Laurel about what time she'd come round, but he'd kick himself if he missed her. Once the home screen lights up, Frank plugs his cell phone in and scrolls through the files to find the audio recording and the photos he took of Reed's police file, hurriedly hitting copy and then watching the bar flood green as the files copy across.

As soon as it's done, he logs off and grabs up his phone and fires off a text to Laurel: _I'm heading home now, come over whenever you're ready._

Frank hasn't been home long and is pouring himself a whisky when the short, sharp knocks come at his door. He wipes a hand across his brow, takes a deep breath and prepares himself to face the spitfire of a girl he knows is waiting, before crossing the room to let her in.

She appraises him wordlessly for a moment, wandering eyes taking in his tired appearance; he's removed his vest and tie, his top few buttons are undone, his sleeves are rolled up, and he can feel the exhaustion on his face. Laurel steps forward and he moves aside for her to pass, automatically revolving around each other like hissing animals poised for a fight, though Frank doesn't think he can take any more confrontation today.

She shrugs her jacket off her shoulders as she enters his apartment, drops the garment on the back of his couch as she takes in his minimalist bachelor pad. Frank is unsurprised when she finds the fresh glass of whisky on the countertop and swipes it, taking a drink as though he'd offered it to her. He rolls his eyes and fetches another tumbler for himself.

"What is it you want?" he asks, pouring another glass. "And," he adds, after a moment of thought, "if you've come here to fight, do me a favour and come back later. I'm not in the mood."

"The opposite, actually," Laurel replies. She perches on the arm of his leather couch, levels him with that calm, penetrating stare. "We need to form a truce of some kind."

Frank leans back against the countertop, raises his eyebrows at her. "A truce, huh? An' what does that mean?"

"Usually it means you be nice to each other."

"So you _do_ want me to get you off again?" He smirks, teasing, goading… hoping.

Ignoring his infantile question, Laurel takes a deep breath and releases it through her nose. A hand comes up to fiddle absently with her oversized necklace, prompting Frank's eyes to wander to her low neckline and exposed collarbone briefly, before returning to her face. "I… I've been thinking," she says eventually. "About what you said. And you're right; I do want to help Dryden."

Frank's eyebrows lift in surprise.

"So I'll see how much I can find out about Reed, okay? I'll try and get hold of the client folder later tonight-"

"Tonight? You're working tonight?" It takes Frank by surprise that she's clearly not planning to stay long, though he's not sure why he hadn't expected as much. Later, he will realise that it's less surprise than it is disappointment, and this unnerving epiphany will keep him awake for hours.

"Yes. And I'll see if I can talk to some of the other girls. The ones who slept with Reed. I'll see what I can find. Because… well, you're right." She glares slightly, like she hates to admit it. "Dryden doesn't deserve to go away for murder, not when we know he's innocent."

"So… you're gonna testify?"

Laurel's shaking her head before he's even finished his sentence. "I've told you, I can't. But I have an idea. What if someone else saw Dryden at the club that night?"

"Like who?"

"A colleague of mine. She remembers him sitting at the bar afterwards."

"Is she sure it was that same night?"

"She'll say she's sure."

"And she'll go under oath and say that?"

"If I ask her to."

Frank takes a drink and ponders the suggestion. "But if she's asked how long she saw 'im for…"

"She won't be able to say she spent a long time with him, I know, but surely it's better than nothing? And then can't Professor Keating prove that if he was at the club at that time, it wouldn't be possible for him to be stabbing Reed?"

He shrugs. "I mean… it could be better than nothing. I'll run it past Annalise."

"How high, right?" she asks, sarcasm flooding her tone.

"What?"

"She says jump, you ask how high?"

Frank manages to crack a smile at that. "Somethin' like that." He crosses the room, sits on the opposite side of the sofa, forcing Laurel to swivel around so that she can continue to look at him. She stays on the arm of the chair, props her feet up on the seat and rests her elbows on her knees, one hand holding her glass and the other hand holding her chin.

"Is Gina going to jail, then?" she asks after a moment.

He sighs, shrugs. "Dunno. Annalise is fixin' it."

She's silent for a while, then she tips her glass back and finishes off her drink. "You really picked me?" she asks quietly.

Frank looks over at her, confused. "How'd you mean?"

"You're not going to turn me over to Professor Keating? You're not going to keep begging me to testify? You're on my side?"

He smiles slightly. "Yes, Laurel, I'm on your side. Here," he says suddenly. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his cell. He pats the seat next to him. "Sit down."

For once, she follows his instruction, putting her glass on a side table before plopping down unceremoniously beside him on the couch. She watches over his shoulder as he pulls up his photo library and finds the blackmail video he took in the club. Then, with a few swipes of his thumb, he deletes it.

"Yeah, like you only have one copy," she scoffs.

"I swear I never backed it up. I'm not gonna sell you out. I got you, I promise."

She turns her head to look closely at his face, search every pore for the sign of a lie, but she doesn't find one. "That's not what you said yesterday."

He sighs. "Look, you got me on the defensive yesterday. You came in with all these ideas and accusations an' it was annoyin'. This is part of being a defense lawyer, Laurel. Annalise says it all the time: don't ask the client if they did it. It's not your job. If you can't take that, then you won't make it in this world."

"I know," she states, her tone a tad defensive itself. "I just… it's one thing in theory but…"

"I know," he echoes. He looks over at the girl on his couch, a girl who came over to talk, not screw, and it's a new experience for Frank. He's a love 'em and leave 'em type, not the dating and talking type. But, he finds himself thinking, he likes talking to Laurel. And so he doesn't stop himself from asking the question that sits on his tongue. "You wanna go out?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like out for dinner. We could start over, get a drink or somethin'. I know a good hoagie place down the street, it's open 'til late…"

"Frank." She cuts him off, shifts forward on the couch and looks at her feet. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'm not technically your professor…" he starts, pulling out the line he's used so frequently before on unsuspecting law students. He's never used it to get dinner out of a girl, though.

"It's not that," she says. "I… don't date." She looks over and grins wickedly at him, though the expression doesn't fill her eyes with brightness. "My job pretty much puts a stop to that."

Frank nods, a neutral expression covering his disappointment like a cheap band-aid. "Right," he says, forcing his emotions to level out. Then he looks back at her, his expression deathly serious. "That's fine, I don't think I'd be comfortable dating someone in your line of work, anyway."

Her eyebrow raises in question, dares him to speak his prejudice aloud.

"Yeah, law students," he elaborates, unable to completely hide his teasing smirk. "They're awful. Stuck-up pricks, the lot of 'em."

Laurel laughs and reaches out to push his leg gently.

Frank puts his glass on the floor, out of the way. He turns his body to face her and then reaches out, clasps his hand over hers, outstretched on her knee. "This is okay though, right?"

She smiles. "Sure."

He moves his hand onto her leg, traces his fingers slowly up her outer thigh until his palm comes to rest on the curve of her ass. "And this?"

"I don't see why not."

His arm snakes up further still until he's reaching around her back, pulling her closer to him until their chests are touching. She plays along, lifts her feet onto the couch as he lowers her back until she's lying flat on his couch and he's hovering carefully above her, his knees either side of her, his elbows propping him up. "And this?" he murmurs, bending his head to place a kiss to that exposed collarbone, the hollow of her throat.

"Mmm-hmm," she responds, the delicate skin vibrating under his lips, and one of her hands drifts up to his hair.

Frank lifts his head so he can bring his face to hers, nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye, breaths mingling between them, only atoms separating them. "And this?" His voice is a coarse whisper.

"Yes," she whispers back. "This is good."

He captures her lips with his, kisses her gently, skilfully, his tongue tracing her lower lip and then meeting hers softly in the space which is neither her nor him. If their kisses before have been battles, then this is a white flag, a surrender, an acknowledgement that they're fighting for the same side.

She breaks the kiss first, eyes fluttering open below him. "Frank, I can't. I've got to go to work."

He searches her eyes for a moment and recognizes that she's not pushing him away, only trying not to start something she doesn't have time to finish. "Okay," he relents slowly. "Okay." He shifts his weight, pushes himself up and gives her room to readjust herself.

She's quiet for a while, but her next words give him hope. "Another time, maybe."

"Well," he says carefully, "you know where I am."

"I'd better go."

"Okay."

They stand up together and Laurel turns to look at him. "I'll see what I can find out," she promises. "About Reed. And… let me know if you want my colleague to testify. I can talk to her."

Frank nods, pleased that they've come to a compromise that works. "Sure."

She turns for the door, but then hesitates and turns back. "Give me your cell."

He frowns at her. "Really? We're on the same side, here, I'm not recording-"

"I know," she snaps, seemingly angry with him for bringing that particular transgression up again. "Just… give it to me."

Reluctantly, he unlocks his phone and hands it over.

She types something in and then hands it back with a raised eyebrow. "My real number. You know, so you don't have to keep texting Lola."

"Right." He nods and pockets the phone, shrugs it off as though the gesture isn't the big deal they both know it is. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. See you." She lets herself out and Frank waits until he can't hear her footsteps on the stairs anymore and then he gets his cell back out again.

 _Laurel?_ He sends.

Not ten seconds later, his phone vibrates with a reply. _?_

 _Just checking you didn't fob me off with a fake number._

 _I didn't._

He smiles and is about to put his phone away and get the leftover meatballs out of the fridge for dinner (he never can cook meatballs for just one person), but it pings again in his hand. He glances down, and her message has him cursing her under his breath.

 _Just so you know, I'll be thinking of you when they're touching me. Maybe even when I'm touching me. Goodnight, Frank._

This girl was going to be the death of him.

Meanwhile, the Keating house is dark, and Annalise stands in the kitchen, braced against the cool granite of the counter. Sam is out late yet again and she's alone in this godforsaken house, alone with her thoughts and her continuing failures. Letting out a huff of frustration, she goes to the cupboard and finds a bottle of vodka, takes a mouthful right from the bottle before finding a glass and pouring herself a generous measure.

She goes through to her office, sees her laptop on the desk rather than away, where it should be. "Frank," she mutters irritably. But she may as well check the recording of the Dryden meeting, see whether she could build a feeble defense on anything he said. She turns on the laptop, navigates through the folders to find the Dryden folder and, within it, a file labelled _Dryden meeting, 09.21._ But she's surprised to find several files inside the folder, rather than just the one recording.

Scrolling through, Annalise finds that Frank's been doing his research. There are photos of Dryden's case file, the coroner's report, graphic images of Reed's injuries. _At least he's been doing something_ , Annalise finds herself thinking spitefully of her second-in-command. The last file in the folder is a video, entitled _MV0017_ , the name giving no clue to what it is. So, she opens it.

There's a girl, a brunette, clad only in her underwear. Little else gives away the purpose of the video, but then someone speaks, and Annalise recognizes Frank's deep voice immediately. "I've given you three hundred bucks," he says. "What _do_ you do?"

It's the stripper, the one they've been trying – and failing – to get onside.

"Come back over here and I'll show you," the girl responds.

Annalise's hand stills on the trackpad of the laptop. Because she knows that girl's voice, heard it just earlier today at the courthouse. The video is slightly blurry, not the best quality, but a close look at the girl's face confirms the stripper's identity. _Castillo_ , Annalise remembers, _Laurel Castillo_.

 **Just when you think things are starting to go right for these two…**

 **Sorry for the slight cliffie but this chapter was insanely long so I hope that you can forgive me and, in return, leave a little comment? Thanks so much for all the love on the last chapter, you guys make me feel giddy. Special shout-out to the anon on tumblr who left me a lovely message, too! You are all the absolute best.**

 **Only two or three chapters left now! See you for the next one very soon.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry this took so long again! Thank you for all your fab comments, as ever. You are awesome!**

* * *

On Friday morning, Frank is at the courthouse before even Annalise, waiting in their pre-booked meeting room. Luckily, he's brought his laptop with him, so he sits down and continues his Google search on Edward Reed from the day before.

He hasn't heard from Laurel since she left his apartment last night on either her new or old number, so he assumes that nothing has come through for them about Reed just yet.

The door swings open shortly after eight, and Annalise steps in and then pauses, seemingly surprised to see Frank already there. She stops only for a brief second though, then steps in and shuts the door behind her, setting her briefcase on the other end of the desk. "Morning," she says. Her tone is cool, flat, and Frank thinks she's still mad at him for not prying the right information out of Gina.

"How is it goin'?" Frank asks. "Do we have anythin' for Gina's trial? Is there anythin' I can do?"

Annalise's eyes raise to observe him silently. She stares at him for a moment, his puppy-dog eyes, his slightly-too-eager demeanour. She shakes her head. "No, I got it."

Practically feeling the chill from her cold shoulder, Frank takes a deep breath before presenting Laurel's idea. "I had… an idea for the Dryden case."

"Oh, did you?" Annalise has her briefcase open now and is taking out reams of paper, flicking through carefully stapled pages and checking that everything she needs is there.

"I thought…" Frank starts, hesitates, suddenly feeling nervous for some reason. He shrugs it off. "Well, since we can't get the girl on the stand herself-"

" _You_ can't," she corrects sharply. Then, she looks up at Frank, thoughtfully. "What was her name again? Laura?"

Frank blinks, frowns slightly at Annalise's odd expression. "Uh… Lola. Anyway, since Lola won't testify, perhaps we could get the bartender from the club to testify that Richard was there that night. In the club." When he's met with silence, he elaborates a little. "You know, if he was at the club, then he was nowhere near the scene of the crime, he couldn't have done it."

Annalise frowns. "The club's only about twenty blocks away from where Reed's body was found. He could have easily been to both places in one night."

"Depends on how long he was at the bar for, doesn't it? Surely it's worth a shot?"

She looks back at Frank for a long moment, fixes him with a look that Frank can't decipher. "And this is your idea?" she asks eventually.

It wasn't, of course, it was Laurel's idea, but there's no way Annalise can know that, Frank reasons. So, naturally, he lies. "Who else's idea would it be?"

"I'll think about it," she concedes eventually. They work in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, and then Annalise speaks up again. "Oh, thanks for copying over the Dryden recording."

Frank glances up at her. "No problem." He looks back to the screen in front of him, but Annalise speaks again.

"Where did the other files come from?"

"Uh…" Frank doesn't look up this time, just keeps clicking through to new journal articles trying to find a precedent that could help them. "I went to the station an' got Dryden's file. They're all just photos of the stuff in the file, coroner's report and so on. Nothin' out of the ordinary. Why?"

"Just wondering," she replies after a short pause.

"Hey, could we use a heat of passion defense?" Frank suggests then. "Get the charges down to manslaughter?"

Annalise rolls her eyes, refrains from calling him incompetent. "No. Unless he literally stormed out and stabbed the guy within ten minutes of being told about the affair, there was a substantial cooling off period. And anyway, to plead a heat of passion defense, Richard would have to put in a guilty plea and he's not guilty."

"But Annalise… he's facin' life for murder. Surely a guilty plea to manslaughter an' maybe fifteen years is better?"

"No, Frank. He's innocent, he's pleading innocent and fifteen years is not a victory for an innocent man." She sighs. "Now shut up and let me focus."

A short and silent time later, the door clicks and Bonnie joins them. They exchange nods of greeting but otherwise continue uninterrupted. That is, until Annalise decides she's done focussing. "Okay," she says, putting her pen down with a sigh and leaning back in her chair to look up at her associates. "I'm going to be picking the new interns today for the firm. Have you got any standouts?"

Frank hesitates, pretends to think about it.

"Pratt," Bonnie suggests. "The girl who found out about Ms Tanner's colour-blindness. She's annoying but she'll work hard."

Annalise nods slowly in agreement. "She's on my list. She's ruthless, I'll give her that. And Walsh, obviously. He's creative at finding solutions and I could do with some creativity around here."

Frank ignores the jibe, knows he's got to speak up now. "What about Laurel? Castillo. She's bright, asks the right questions."

Bonnie scoffs beside him. "Surprised you two find the time to _talk_."

But Annalise ignores her, watches Frank's face carefully. "She found out about Gina. If you ignore the overzealous moral compass, I suppose that indicates good judgement."

"Exactly," Frank says.

"Although her taste in men would indicate otherwise," she adds wearily.

Frank sighs. "It ain't like that, Annalise…"

"So you two aren't screwing?"

"No!" he denies, and it's not a complete lie; he hasn't actually had sex with her. "She came to me about the case, that's all. Look, she's intelligent an' she's got good sense. She could really help us; ain't that what this is about?"

Annalise is quiet for a moment, stares at the floor in front of her. Eventually she says, "I'll consider it. But dammit, Frank, if you bring me a harassment suit, I'll fire you on the spot. Anyone else?" she asks.

Frank shrugs. "The Millstone kid might be good to have in our corner."

"The kid who argued diminished capacity had some interesting ideas," Bonnie chips in.

Annalise scribbles something in her notebook. "Alright," she says after a moment. "Thank you for your input. Now, let's go save Gina's lying ass."

They transfer to the courtroom, Annalise and Bonnie taking the front bench and Frank taking the back, as he has been all week. He makes sure that Annalise doesn't need any help and then heads for a bathroom break before the real work starts.

When he comes out of the men's room, she's sitting on a bench opposite the door, almost as if she's been waiting for him. She catches his eye and her lips twitch up into a smile that is downright sinful. His gaze drifts down and he notices she's wearing that floral dress she'd worn when the students gave their defences for Gina's case. The one with the chaste neckline that had made him almost physically angry. But today, she's not wearing thick leggings underneath it. Instead, the dress gives way just above the knee to the pale, exposed flesh of her legs. Then, like clockwork, her knees part slightly, barely noticeable, but enough for Frank to see the supple skin of her thighs, the white lace of her panties…

She stands then, tilts her head slightly and then heads out of the ornate double doors. He follows, naturally.

"What's up?" he drawls casually when they're outside, stood discretely by the wall lest one of Laurel's classmates see them together. "Did you find anything about Reed?"

She frowns. "Not really, I spoke to a couple of other girls but didn't really learn anything new. But I took another shift this evening, and I know Parks isn't supposed to be there, so I'll try to get a look at his client list."

Frank tries not to feel disappointed at her lack of information, but he worries anyway. After all, there's an Annalise-shaped guillotine hanging over his head with this case.

"That's not what I wanted to talk to you about, though," she says then, her tone dropping an octave.

"Oh yeah? What did you want then?"

She leans in closer, lowers her voice to a whisper. "I want you…" She pauses, deliberately, Frank thinks. "To come over this weekend."

Frank's responding smile reaches his eyes. It's arrogant on the surface, cocky and casual, but Laurel doesn't miss the way it makes the corners of his eyes crease and his eyebrows lift in muffled delight. "You change your mind about that dinner?"

"Not the dinner," she murmurs, her own smile coy and careful, "but I might have reconsidered your offer to supply more orgasms."

He laughs but his breath catches, and he feels an inconvenient ache in his balls, the beginning twitches of a hard-on that will be hard to get rid of. "I was that good in your little daydreams, huh?"

Laurel glances around briefly and then edges closer. Her hand reaches up, looks like it's adjusting his collar, but her fingers dip inside, her nails scrape the nape of his neck. "Let's just say I wasn't left wanting," she confesses, whispers, but there's no hint of embarrassment in her admission. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and bites on it carefully and he knows that she knows she's undoing him like a bow on a Christmas present. One tug and he's a goner.

Her pupils are black coals, the set of her brow suggestive. The curl of her lip unreservedly seductive.

He glances at his watch, sees there's still half an hour before Gina's trial officially starts. "Bathroom?"

In the empty ladies' room, he pushes her into a stall and slams her up against the door, lips crashing against hers frantically, one hand sliding the lock closed, the other pushing her dress up, finding those white lace panties. He groans into her mouth when he feels the sodden crotch of her panties and he tugs them a few inches down so that he can access the slick folds underneath. She hums into his mouth when the coarse pad of his thumb finds her clit and he pushes his fingers inside of her, no time to be delicate about it.

Laurel's hand comes to his face, gently pushes his head so he stops kissing her. "No," she says against his lips when hers are freed. "Just fuck me. We've had enough foreplay."

Frank couldn't agree more so he withdraws his hand and reaches for his belt instead. She helps and soon four desperate hands are pawing at his belt, pushing his pants down, shortly followed by his boxer-briefs, while Laurel shimmies her panties past her knees and off her ankles.

He takes his cock in hand and strokes it a few times, coating himself in her, and then he freezes. "I don't have…"

But she's one step ahead of him, as usual, and brandishes a condom seemingly out of nowhere. She tears the packet with her teeth and then takes over from him, holding him steady in her palm and then expertly rolling the condom down. He raises an eyebrow at her but doesn't let his mind think about how she got so good at that, and then he grabs her hips and lifts her slightly, still pressed firmly against the door. He pauses, scans her face. "You sure?"

Her expression contorts, her neck strains and her eyes implore, her entire being giving off an aura of desperate longing and inconceivable depravity. "Just do it!"

He brings the tip of his cock to her entrance, feels a fresh gush of her, and that more than encourages him to push into her, a short, quick thrust, filling her up. She moans, head falling back to hit the door with a bump as her eyes close in sheer euphoria.

"Oh god," she breathes.

Frank can only groan his accord as he adjusts to her heat all around him, her cunt's tight grip pulling him in, a moment he hasn't consciously realized he's been craving ever since he first laid eyes on her in that club. He holds her steady against the door and withdraws before pushing back inside her with more force, feeling her stretch and clench, accommodating and adjusting to his thickness, leaking steadily around him, warm and wet and so fucking hot and so much better than he thought she'd be. And, _God_ , he'd thought she'd be good.

His whole body thrums with it, the desperate need he has for Laurel – an exigency that's he's been burying for so long – and the delicious satisfaction of finally being inside of her throbs like the relief of scratching an itch that's always been just out of reach. He picks up the pace, thrusts into her forcefully, fully takes her against that door and she's pulsing and clenching around him. His gaze drops and he watches where they're joined, watches as he disappears inside of her swollen folds, a more enticing and arousing sight than anything he could imagine.

She moves her head, lets it rest against his shoulder and Frank's surprised to feel her lips on his neck, his collarbone, and then her teeth scrape him lightly before biting down, hard enough to almost feel painful but not hard enough to leave a mark.

"Laurel…" he grunts. "So good… you feel so good…"

She licks messily at his neck, edging around the lowest hairs of his beard, kissing and sucking and biting him, ravaging him as he ravages her.

Suddenly, the door to the ladies' room sounds and the clacking of heels echoes through the sex-filled air of the bathroom. They freeze, eyes locked and panting breaths quietened. They hear a purse being opened, some rustling out by the mirrors, and Frank grins devilishly at the beautiful, debauched girl before him. Then, warning her to be quiet with his eyes, he starts driving back into her again. Slow, at first. But slowly building, becoming more daring.

Her eyelids close after a moment, her lips press together and her neck dapples in red with the effort of holding back moans, the mottled colouring spreading up to her cheeks. Frank, too, is struggling to hold his tongue but the game is almost making it more fun, more enticing, more illicit.

Eventually, it's too much and a small whimper escapes from Laurel. They pause, but the woman at the mirror doesn't appear to have heard. Frank pulls a hand up to cover Laurel's mouth, but she doesn't seem to like that much. Her eyes fly open and she glares for a moment and then he feels warmth on his palm and he realizes that she's licking him, trying to push away his hand. He removes his hand but instead, slips his index finger between her lips, pushing it in until her tongue comes to swirl around it, taste herself on him from earlier.

This almost does him in, especially when she gets the musky, sweet taste of her own juices on his digit and her eyes darken and cloud with lust. She doubles her efforts, sucking his finger keenly into her mouth and staring him down the whole time.

The heels clack again then, in the opposite direction than they came in, and the door opens and closes, releasing them from their restrictions.

Frank groans freely, and thrusts hard into her, the force slamming the door and rattling the lock, and Laurel hums, whines, whimpers around his fingers, her teeth trailing the knuckle joint and her cheeks hollowing earnestly around him. "Fuck, Laurel," he mutters, never looking away from her. "I… I'm close…" His hips stutter against her, as he fucks her hard. This is not a gentle, careful worshipping of her body. This is feral, and it's desperate and it's so goddamn good and his blood is boiling, his balls are tightening, his cock is straining and twitching inside her.

He pulls his fingers from her mouth, damp and dripping, and reaches between them to find her clit because he'll be damned if they can't both get off together for once. He needs this time to be mutual and mind-blowing and phenomenal enough that she'll come back begging. Because, _God_ , this time isn't over yet but he knows he wants more of her, all of her, as much as she'll give to him. He wants her to beg, he wants to see her splayed out in his bed, he wants to smell her on his sheets for days. He wants her naked and wet in his shower, he wants to bend her over a desk and bury himself in her. He wants her riding him erratically and he wants to sink his face into her pussy and suck her dry, lap up every last bit of her.

He just… _wants_.

His wanting drives him on, his thrusts becoming irregular and hard and frantic and unrestrained. He fingers her clit roughly, pulling her to that precipice with him and, fuck, is she responding. Her hands are on his shoulders and she's chanting his name quietly in between moans, and _oh fucks_ , and nonsensical slurs of pleasure.

Eventually the building sensations hit the ceiling and her head rolls on her shoulders, her lips part wide. "Oh, Frank," she cries out, probably too loud for a public restroom but neither of them have the presence of mind to care. "Yes, God, yes… fuck… I'm gonna…"

He groans along with her, the supporting chorus to her starring role in his every fantasy. "Yes, baby," he croons, the pet name falling from his lips without his express permission. He speeds up his ministrations on her clit, fingering her into oblivion and far beyond.

She breaks, and the first unrestrained clench pulls him right along with her and he presses into her, as his cock swells and releases, twitching furiously as cum spills from him in long, hot streams, and he grunts out, a strangled gasp that catches in his chest. Her mouth forms an o and a steady stream of whispered expletives tumble from her as she throbs around him almost violently, coming so hard that he can almost hear her bones vibrating, and Frank thinks that he could watch Laurel orgasm on repeat and never get tired of it.

Afterwards, they lean, panting, against the stall door, him softening inside her.

"I feel used," Frank says quietly once he's caught his breath. "You had that whole thing planned out: you seduced me."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, you were all over me last night. You left me wanting."

He can't help the smirk at her casual admission. "I knew you'd come crawling back."

She releases her legs from around his waist, tries to step down. "Oh please," she huffs, wincing a little as Frank pulls out and sets her down, disposing of the condom and pulling his pants up. "I barely had to flutter my eyelashes at you. I'm not the one on my knees here."

"Maybe later?" he suggests, lazy smirk spreading wider.

Laurel huffs and slaps his bicep gently, but she doesn't refuse his implied invitation. She pushes the skirt of her dress down, adjusts her clothes and Frank can do nothing but admire her. This girl, who has just been thoroughly ravaged in a bathroom stall – by him, wondrously enough – has total composure and barely a hair out of place. Her strength emanates from her and it makes her sexier, more beautiful, more perfect; the right superlative to describe her simply doesn't exist. "What?" she asks, catching him staring.

"Nothin'."

Laurel bends, picks up her panties from the floor and then steps back towards him again. She tucks the panties into his pocket and leans in so that her lips are almost touching his ear. "'Til next time," she murmurs.

And then she's gone.

Frank slides the lock back into place and leans against the wall of the stall for a second, gathering his composure. Then, he does up his belt, pushes those panties deeper into his pocket and straightens his tie. He opens the stall door and washes his hands clean of her, smooths down his hair and checks himself over in the mirror. The door opens, and a woman comes in, does a double take at his presence in the ladies' room and then enters the stall with an exaggerated frown. Frank just chuckles under his breath.

Back in the courtroom, the benches are almost full of mumbling, nosey people. Mostly students and reporters, here to see Gina surely get sentenced for murder.

He takes his seat on the back bench, next to the overflowing box of discovery and, he notices with painful awareness, almost directly in front of her. He doesn't look at her, but he can feel her proximity like a static in the air, his whole body prickling and conscious of the fact that she can freely observe him from her vantage point. His mind stops briefly in the gutter, thinks about how her thighs are pressed together with nothing in between them. How one misplaced leg could see her arrested for public indecency.

As usual, Bonnie's the one who pulls him from his lewd thoughts. "Has she told you her plan to save this case?" she asks in hushed tones.

"No. You?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing."

Frank sighs. "Maybe she ain't got anythin'. Maybe she's gonna wing it?"

"I doubt it."

"Well… I got no idea."

The bailiff calls them all to attention then, preventing Bonnie and Frank from further speculation and forcing Frank to get his head back in the game. They rise for the judge and it's not long before Annalise kicks off the proceedings of the day by calling their first witness. "I'd like to call our first witness to the stand," she says, tall and imposing before the court. "Detective Nate Lahey."

Frank feels his face drop and he makes eye contact with Bonnie, whose horrified expression surely mirrors his. They both spend enough time in that house to know the illicit secrets those four walls contain.

"Who's that?" he hears Laurel mutter behind him, paper shuffling as she tries to find his name in her previous notes, though Frank knows she'll find nothing.

"No idea," replies the girl beside her, the prom queen stumped for once.

Nate takes the stand and even Frank is surprised by the directness of Annalise's interrogation. She asks him whether he was supervising his employee, questions the chain of command, demands to know where Detective Lahey was instead of at the precinct, and Frank and Bonnie both quickly surmise that Annalise herself is his mysterious 'friend' is. She's brutal, a dog with a bone, forcing out what she needs to hear.

But it works.

The judge cautions her eventually: "This is the last question I'll allow."

Annalise takes a moment, considers her phrasing carefully, but she knows that she's won this battle. Frank hopes that it's enough for her to win the war. "Are you personally aware," she asks, calm and measured, "of any instances of doctored surveillance footage within your department?"

Nate takes a long time to answer, eyes downcast and jaw tight. But when he replies in the affirmative, the courtroom bursts into shocked gasps and murmured exclamations.

"Oh my god," Laurel whispers behind him, to no one in particular. He can sense her disapproval as she realizes what Frank already knew, what Bonnie's wide smile all but confirms: they've got this. Gina's going to go free.

"Now it's time to find out who will be joining us in our firm," Annalise announces to the class of first-years later that afternoon.

The students seem to sit up straighter in their chairs, eager to be chosen for the position of poorly-paid dogsbody. Frank pays closer attention, too, having no idea about who Annalise has chosen or whether he's scuppered Laurel's chances by not being able to keep it in his pants.

"First," Annalise says, loud and authoritative, "the standout in the class and the one you should all make it your mission to destroy. Come get your prize Mr Walsh."

Frank watches the well-groomed young man approach and collect the trophy from Annalise, a smugness radiating from him that Frank already can't stand. The other students applaud pathetically, a smattering of bitter claps.

"The other ones joining us will be: Asher Millstone."

The buffoon hollers from up in the auditorium.

"Michaela Pratt."

The prom queen withers in relief in that front row seat.

"Laurel Castillo."

He can pinpoint her in the crowd like she's a glowing beacon. She's been slumped half over her desk for the entire hour, clearly tired from working late, but this seems to catch her off-guard and her head lifts in astonishment. Frank smiles, gaze fixed on her, glad that finally something has gone this girl's way.

Annalise continues: "And because our workload has grown I decided to hire one more of you. And that one will be Wes Gibbons."

Frank finally tears his eyes from Laurel to frown suspiciously at his superior; she's never added an extra intern before. And she's picked the waifish, tall kid from the wait list?

"What the hell, Annalise?" he asks, when the students have left the three of them alone in the lecture theatre.

"What?" she volleys back innocently. "I picked your girl."

"Yeah, but the wait list kid?"

She raises her eyebrows at him. "I see something in him. Just like you see something in Miss Castillo. We'll see what they can do."

Frank exchanges a questioning look with Bonnie, but she shakes her head, equally as clueless as he is to Annalise's motivations.

"Oh, Frank?" Annalise says, as though it's an afterthought.

"Yeah?"

"Your idea. About the bartender at the club. I think we should talk to her."

"You wan' her to testify?"

"Perhaps. I'd like to talk to her, at least. See what she knows. Can you get hold of her over the weekend?"

Frank smiles, nods assuredly. "Yeah," he says. "I can do that."

When he's walking back to his car, he calls Laurel on her personal number.

"Hi," she answers quickly but her voice is wary.

"Hey yourself. Got a sec?"

"Depends what it's for," she hedges.

"That bartender you mentioned, is she workin' this weekend? Can I pay her a visit?"

"Oh. I think so. I'll find her tonight and let you know."

"Okay." Frank reaches his car and slips into the driver's seat. There's a lingering – and slightly awkward – pause. Frank's brain chooses this inopportune moment to remember the exact pitch and resonance of her moans as she came and, for a second, he has no idea what to say to her. Then, thankfully, he recalls something else she'd said shortly before they'd debauched each other in a grimy bathroom stall. "Do you still want me to come over this weekend or was that just really bad foreplay?"

"Oh," she says again. "Um… sure."

"You sound thrilled by the idea," he deadpans, trying not to feel offended. His mind flickers through their last interaction, tries to find the moment when she switched from seductive to cold as ice.

"No, no, I do. Really. Come tomorrow and I'll let you know about the bartender and tell you if I find anything on Reed."

Frank sighs. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"This mornin' you couldn't get enough o' me and now you can't wait to be rid of me. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says with a haughty sigh. "I'm fine. Just… come over tomorrow afternoon and we can talk."

"Jus' talk?" he asks, dropping his voice in an attempt to charm her.

It doesn't work; he can practically hear her gritting her teeth on the other end of the line. "If all you want to do is fuck me, then you can book an appointment like everyone else, Frank. I'll see you tomorrow." The line goes dead, and Frank looks at the home screen blankly. Well, now he feels offended.

That evening, when sitting alone on his couch, he considers booking an appointment with Lola to talk with Laurel and try to work out where he's fucked up this time, but he figures that that would probably send the wrong message so he leaves it. His fingers itch to contact her but he knows that's a terrible idea. So he pulls out his cell and texts someone else instead: _Drinks?_

Her reply comes quick: _Hell yes._

"To narrow escapes," Frank toasts Gina's case as they clink the shot glasses together and then down their drinks simultaneously. Synchronized drinking; now that's a sport Frank could get behind.

"And new colleagues," Bonnie adds, motioning the bartender for another round.

"They ain't colleagues," Frank disagrees with a frown. "They're children that need round-the-clock supervision. They're an additional workload without the additional pay."

"I'll drink to that," she states sombrely and shakes her empty glass. "Or I would. If I had anything left to drink." She sighs. "Why do we still do this job?"

Frank laughs, short and a tad bitter. "Where else'd we go, Bon? At least we got each other."

The bartender comes to them and Bonnie orders more shots and a gin and tonic. Frank adds a scotch, double. It comes quickly and Bonnie sucks deeply from her straw. "What happened?" she asks, out of nowhere.

"What d'you mean?"

Her eyes dance with mirth. "I thought you'd be home tonight, banging your girlfriend."

He rolls his eyes. "Very funny. She ain't my girlfriend."

"But you know who I mean. And you don't deny the banging."

"Yeah, you need to shut up 'bout that. You're gonna get me in trouble with Annalise."

"Oh relax," Bonnie slurs, waving a hand. "You know she knows everything. If she really gave a shit about you screwing the students, she'd have shut it down a long time ago."

Frank just shrugs.

"So what? Did she dump you?"

He takes a long drink, despairing. He thought he'd come here to avoid thinking about Laurel. "Believe it or not, my sex life ain't that interestin'," he says vaguely. "There's nothin' to dump."

"Bitch, please," she scoffs. "That girl can't keep her eyes off you. And I know you; she's just your type."

"An' what's my type exactly?"

"Young." Bonnie takes another slurp and then grins devilishly. "Slutty."

He raises a gently chiding eyebrow at her. "Nice."

She giggles, a sign that she's edged past the suitably drunk line. "Emotionally unavailable," she adds. "Daddy issues?"

"Shame," Frank drawls then, unwilling to hear his best friend slag off Laurel anymore. "If it weren't for the young part, you'd tick all my boxes."

Bonnie glares. "Har har."

He shrugs, finishes the whisky. The bartender catches his eye and nods, pours another for both him and Bonnie.

"How's the Dryden thing coming along?" Bonnie asks, thankfully changing the subject. Although Frank's not sure he wants to talk about this one, either.

"Ugh," he groans. "The less said the better."

"Definitely not getting that alibi, then?"

"No. But I think we're changing tact anyway."

"We are?"

"Gonna get someone else at the club to testify that Dryden was there that night."

"Will that even work?"

"Better than nothin'." Frank pulls at his tie, loosens it a little, suddenly wants free of the feeling of doom closing in around him. "At least we'll be able to place him away from the crime scene for a while."

Bonnie frowns thoughtfully. "The prosecution will be able to poke a lot of holes in that."

"Ah, this case is so fuckin' full of holes, it may as well be used to drain pasta," Frank quips, noticing the way his own words come out a little slower, more jumbled.

"Did the stripper not respond to the blackmail?" She gasps immediately after her own question, sits up straighter and looks at Frank with a sudden clarity.

"What?" he asks nervously, worried that she's somehow put two and two together.

"Did she run? Or kill herself?" Bonnie lowers her voice to a drunken whisper. "Is she _dead_ , Frank?"

"Naw." He shakes his head, relief colouring his tone. "She's fine."

"So you didn't blackmail her, then?"

"Nah. Wasn't the right move." He swallows down some more liquor, relishes the burn. "Annalise wanted to present her as an alternative suspect at one point. We found out that she'd slept with Reed as well as Dryden, but it would never have worked."

Even pretty wasted, Bonnie's on the case. "Why would a stripper plant a murder weapon?"

"Exactly!" Frank agrees exaggeratedly. "An', like I said to Laurel, Annalise wouldn't tell the DA or the cops that she slept with Reed 'cos it don't change anythin'."

Bonnie's eyes are on his face. She's frowning, thin brows arched over narrowed eyes. "Laurel?"

Frank's body freezes as he runs over his words in his head, tries to recall his slip of the tongue.

"What does she have to do with anything?" Bonnie glares at him. "For God's sake, Frank, tell me you haven't been discussing our confidential cases as your fucking pillow talk."

"I…" He doesn't know what to say. "No. It's not… no."

"Does Annalise know you've been spilling all our case details to your girlfriend?"

"No!" Frank lowers his voice, sobering up pretty quickly as he realizes what a colossal error he's made. "Bon, shut up."

She snorts. "Relax. No one's listening. It's Fishtown. No one here gives a shit about our caseload."

"No, Bon, shut up," he urges again. "You gotta stop talkin' 'bout Laurel. Annalise can't know."

Bonnie rolls her eyes. "Are you blind _and_ deaf? She already knows you two are boning."

"Not that." He sighs, runs a hand anxiously through his beard. He's going to have to tell her. "Look. Laurel knows everythin'. About the Dryden case. It's her."

"What's her?"

Frank stares at her for a few moments, waits for his companion to make the connection. Because she will. She's been jumping to conclusions her whole life; it's what she's good at.

"Wait." Bonnie puts her drink down on the bar, meets Frank's pressing gaze. "She's… what, the stripper?"

He just looks at her, presses his lips together.

Bonnie's eyes widen slightly. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"So… her second job is a law student?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck," she says again. She pauses for a second. "Frank, Annalise is going to kill you. Both of you. That kid'll get kicked out of the program for sure." She frowns. "Are you sure she's the stripper?"

He shoots her a look of pure exasperation. "Pretty damn sure, Bon."

She's quiet for another moment, and then she asks, "So you're really not screwing her, then?"

He grimaces. "Well."

To his surprise, Bonnie laughs. "Wow," she mutters slowly. "You are even more twisted than I thought. You've been covering for her for a while now, huh?"

"Long enough, yeah."

"And now she's in the K4?"

"Five," Frank corrects. "But yeah."

"But Annalise can't have a prostitute working for her firm. It's illegal to sell sex."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

He shrugs again, finishes the last of his drink. "I got no idea. Hope we don't get caught, I guess."

Bonnie just raises her eyebrows. "Annalise knows everything that goes on in that house. Probably would have been better for her to run."

"Probably." Frank loosens his tie a little more, feels the doom hovering around him again. "You won't say anythin', will you? To Annalise?" He pauses then adds, "Or Laurel?"

"No," she replies. "Your secret's safe with me."

Frank doesn't remember how he found his way back home after continuing to drown his misery in alcohol with Bonnie until the early hours of the morning, but he must have done because he wakes abruptly in his own bed. He's disoriented when he opens his eyes, senses that he hasn't been roused naturally. It's still dark and his head is already starting to throb delicately, though he can tell he's still pretty drunk so the hangover can't be kicking in just yet.

Then, there's a loud and demanding banging.

He sits up, listens carefully, realizing that the banging must be what had woken him. It's close, in his apartment, a distinct and repetitive thumping. Then: "Frank! Open the door."

He relaxes a little, registering that the noise is just a knocking. And then he gets out of bed and rushes through the apartment to get the door.

She doesn't stop knocking until he's opened it and then she pushes past him into his living room.

Frank rubs his eyes blearily and shuts the door again, bolting it behind him. "Laurel, I got neighbours," he tells her firmly. "It's half four in the mornin'-"

"I think I've got something," she says urgently, cutting him off. She's wearing a large coat that comes below her knees. She digs in the pocket and pulls out a page with rough, torn edges and holds it out.

"What?"

"I've got something," she repeats, frantic eyes meeting his. "I… I think I've got something on Edward Reed."

* * *

 **Only two chapters to go now eek. And now Bonnie knows, and Annalise knows, and shit is about to go down...**

 **See you next time - or find me on tumblr: flaurelcasfino.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ah, I'm so sorry that this has taken SO long. I started a new job in the summer so you know how these things go. To make up for it, the next chapter will be up this week as well - see the bottom notes for why. Thanks for staying with me and for your messages over the last few weeks :)**

She's watching him almost deliriously, her wild gaze urgent and almost panicked under the soft glow of the lamp. He can't tell whether this is a good thing or not.

"Okay," Frank says slowly, rubbing his beard with his free hand and then looking down at the scrap of paper. "Calm down, what is it?" He scans the words on the paper quickly. It reads like a list:

 _Edward Reed_

 _Gold standard – regular client since August 2013._

 _Amount outstanding: $0._

 _215-528-7352_

"It's Reed's account," Laurel tells him. "I copied it from the ledger. There's more than one phone number on there, so Reed must have had multiple cell phones. There might be something on the other cell phone to help the case."

Frank looks back up to Laurel, takes in her anxious expression, her bleary eyes, the desperation that he could almost peel from her like the skin from an orange. He glances back down at the scrawl and grimaces. "I dunno, Laurel, normally I got a lot more than jus' a phone number to go on."

"Just check it," she snaps. "There's got to be something."

He stares at her for a moment and she meets his stare, echoes his intensity and challenges it with a tilted chin and an arched, powerful brow. He can see that she's not going to back down, that she thinks she's uncovered a missing link in the case, and Frank's not sure he has the heart to tell her it's unlikely to help. "Fine," he mutters eventually. "Now?"

She shoots him a withering gaze. "Yes, now."

She's still mad at him, Frank surmises quickly. What for, he still can't work out.

"Okay, okay, I'm jus' askin'. It is half four in the mornin' you know." His head throbs as though to prove his point, the beginnings of a colossal hangover sneaking into his brain. He rubs his eyes, tries to push it away, and then goes to the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee instead.

He grabs a tank top from the bedroom to cover his naked torso and then returns to the living room and fires up his laptop, sitting on the edge of the couch and setting the laptop on the coffee table. The screen springs to life and bathes the room in a garish blue light, the wheel ticking round as it whirs arduously, as though protesting the early hour.

Laurel perches on the arm of the couch, watches quietly over his shoulder.

"Why now?" Frank asks after a moment, typing in his password.

"What do you mean?"

"Why's this so urgent now?"

She's quiet for a moment, but it's a contemplative quiet and Frank waits patiently for her reply.

"I suppose," she says, "I realized how desperate things are."

Frank frowns over at her. "How'd you mean?"

She shrugs, looks down and picks at some loose skin on her finger. "You've been guilt-tripping me for a while now about taking the stand, but I always thought I was just the first line of enquiry. I thought I was the easy option, you know? Get the alibi and job's done, easy dismissal and the trial's over in a matter of hours." The pale blue glassy gaze returns to his face and there's a dry mirth in them that Frank's familiar with. "I never imagined that Professor Keating wouldn't actually have a back-up plan, that she wouldn't be able to find another way to save an innocent man from a life sentence and possible death penalty!" Her gaze turns beseeching. "He's innocent so why can't you fix it? You can get _actual_ murderers off scot-free, but you can't form a defense for an innocent man?"

Frank feels the sting of the sincerity in her accusations, fresher and firmer in her beliefs after Gina's hollow victory the day before. They both know that her comments are fair, though. Rather than acknowledge that, Frank redirects: "You do care, then."

"About what?"

"Richard Dryden. You act all above it, like it's not your problem, but you care."

She scowls. "Of course I _care_. I don't want an innocent man to be sentenced for something he didn't do. I _am_ that cliché of a girl from Brown."

"Laurel, I-"

But then her infantile pout turns to genuine sorrow, her shoulders drop infinitesimally. "But I can't help him, even if I want to. At least, not the way you want me to. So I'm trying to find another way." She looks back at him again and her eyes are wide, begging. "I can't take the stand, Frank. Even if it's the only way, I can't do it."

Frank observes her urging tone and the intensity of her gaze. He thinks back to the time they spoke on the edge of the basement stairs, the incongruousness of her anger and her confidence; mere bravado he realizes. "There's more to this, ain't there?" he asks her softly. "This ain't jus' about your class buddies findin' out about your job."

Laurel stares at him for a short moment, searching his face for something. Then, she sighs. "My dad," she mumbles. "He can't know that I'm doing this."

Frank nods, knowingly; no dad wants his little girl working in a club like that. "Ah. I get it."

"No, you don't," Laurel snaps, anger back in full force. "Whatever you think you 'get', you don't. My dad… he's a bad person. You can't even begin to 'get it'."

He frowns, glares at her slightly, put out by her assumption that he's just an idiot nobody from the back streets of Fishtown who's never known anything more sinister than a street-corner transaction. "Try me."

She shakes her head and stands up, shrugging him off. "I'm going to get a coffee. You want one?"

He sighs, turns back to the computer to find that it's all logged in and ready to go. "Yeah," he answers. "Black. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink."

"'Kay," she murmurs and slips away into the kitchen.

Frank pulls up Google. Of the two cell numbers on Laurel's scrap of paper, one is clearly the phone that is impounded as evidence at the police station. According to the file he had bribed his way into a few days prior, it had been thoroughly searched with nothing significant coming to light. Nonetheless, Frank decides to try hacking both cell phones just in case.

A few short searches tell him that, despite having the handset making things a bit easier, he can indeed hack a cell phone with just the number and, just a little while later, he's downloaded iTunes and managed to get the backup of all of the data on the two cell phones.

Laurel returns with the coffees just as the download completes. "How's it going?"

He glances up at her, notes the wobble in her voice and the red rim of her eyes but says nothing of it. "Not bad. The Cloud is a really useful tool for criminals."

"We're not criminals," Laurel disputes, resuming her post on the couch, taking the coffee to her lips and blowing across its dark surface.

"Hacking cell phones is criminal activity," Frank shoots back, clicking through to the data he's uncovered.

Laurel sighs quietly, but doesn't argue, and watches over his shoulder.

One phone is a burner, full of texts from prostitutes offering services, and photo albums disturbingly dotted with pornographic images. But there is little else on there and certainly nothing concerning Richard Dryden.

The other phone is his personal cell. Frank studies Edward Reed's message history with Richard Dryden very closely but can't find anything suspicious. There's some talk about football, work, dinner arrangements, a few brief comments about 'Tuesday nights' which they now know refer to the men's visits to the strip club, but nothing to indicate a disagreement. When Frank searches the cell directory for Mandy Dryden's name, nothing comes up and there's no message history.

"That's suspicious." Laurel's voice fractures the stillness of the room. "They were having an affair, weren't they?"

Frank shakes his head. "It's not unusual for people havin' affairs to erase all contact with each other. I'll check the deleted messages, but they're usually only saved for a little bit and Reed died months ago now."

As expected, the deleted folder is empty.

The only unusual message on the phone is two messages from an unknown number, reading _We need to meet up, in private._ And then: _It's about dick._

Frank searches the unknown number in the contacts but there's no other message history apart from Reed calling the number once shortly after the messages were received, presumably to arrange to meet up with this person.

Laurel leans forward curiously. "When was that sent?"

"The day before he died."

"It could be the person who killed him, arranging to meet up? It would be evidence that it's premeditated."

Frank frowns and reads the message again. "I dunno…" He pulls up the data from the other cell, the burner phone with messages from the strippers he saw:

 _Sugar, we should meet up privately soon. I'm missing your company in my bed._

 _Is your dick feeling lonely tonight?_

 _Meet me in the private room and I'll show you a good time… ;)_

"It's pretty similar to these texts," Frank says. "It's probably just from some hooker. In any case, since we don't know who sent the messages it's just circumstantial at best. The prosecution could even argue that it was Richard baiting him."

Laurel sighs heavily. "So there's nothing?"

Frank rubs his eyes, pinches the bridge between his nose and rests his head against the back of the couch. He doesn't have to answer her verbally to confirm her fears. She puts her mug on the floor so that she can rest her head in her hands, slumped forward uncomfortably.

"Did you talk to the bartender?"

"Yeah." Her voice comes back muffled. "She's not in until Monday, but she'll talk to you. She'll hear you out."

"Well, that's something." _Not much,_ Frank acknowledges to himself, _but something._

They sit in silence for a moment as dawn begins to break outside, early slithers of sunlight edging around the gaps in the blinds.

Her next comment comes out of the blue, off-topic and irrelevant. "I'm going to refuse the internship."

Frank sits up rapidly, twists in his seat to look at her. "What? Why?"

She sits back up too, stretching out slightly, her hand going to her neck and rubbing a sore muscle. She waits out the silence for a moment too long.

"Laurel."

She looks at him, her brow set to sarcastic and dark. "Why d'you think?"

He frowns. "Is this about me bein' a jerk? 'Cos I'll stop. Don't throw away a great opportunity 'cos of me."

"So it was you, then?"

"What was me?" He sighs, then smiles a little in an attempt to lighten the mood. "You're gonna have to dumb it down; we couldn't all go to Brown, you know."

"You got me this job. Because I slept with you."

"What? No!" Frank stands and moves around the couch so that he can face her properly. "I recommended you, sure, but Annalise makes her own decisions. She wouldn't 'a picked you if she didn't think you were worthy of the spot."

Laurel watches him as he talks, her eyes narrowed slightly. She bites her lip, ponders his response. "Does she know? About… Lola?"

"No."

"So it's not a sympathy vote?"

Frank scoffs. "No. If anythin', my recommendation could have put her off choosin' you, so she must've liked you." He thinks back to the day before, when Annalise asked him and Bonnie for their input. "She said you have good judgement."

Laurel doesn't look convinced.

He sighs. "Look, I know not a lot seems to go your way in all this, but trust me: this time, it has."

She puts her hands on the arm beside her and leans back, adjusting her uncomfortable position. Then, she looks him right in the eye and her gaze is softer. "You promise?"

"I swear."

"Fine." She gives him the tiniest of smiles.

Frank half-smiles back. "That why you been mad at me? Or was the sex actually that bad?"

Her smile grows, even revealing a tiny bit of teeth as she teases him: "A little of both."

"Great." He looks at the clock. "It's almost six. Maybe we should get some rest?"

"I can leave?" she offers, and he can tell that if he asks her to, she'll go.

But in what world would he not want this girl sharing his bed?

"You kiddin'? C'mon, I got a spare toothbrush and you can borrow a shirt."

A short while later, he waits for her in bed, desperately trying not to fall asleep before she can join him. His head is throbbing painfully now, a combination of thinking so hard so early and the innumerable drinks he'd consumed just hours earlier with Bonnie. He doesn't have to wait long for Laurel to emerge from the bathroom, one of his navy tank tops draped over her slender frame like a tent on a pole. The way it skims her upper thigh is unnervingly sexy and Frank forces himself to return his gaze to her face. The smirk he finds there tells him that she noticed him blatantly checking her out.

"I can take the couch," she says, repeating a sentiment she'd suggested while he found her a clean towel and toothbrush.

Trying to be a gentleman – a part Frank's not used to playing – he shakes his head. "You are definitely takin' the bed. If you're not comfortable sharin', then I can go…"

"Don't turn this on me, I'm not some priss with delicate sensibilities."

"Alright then." Frank pulls back one side of the comforter, inviting her in and she tiptoes across the room, hesitating only slightly before sliding in beside him.

He watches for a moment as Laurel shuffles down under the blankets and adjusts the pillow to her head, and then he flicks off the light at the switch by his head, bathing them in darkness, the blackout blinds holding the rising daylight at bay.

Suddenly, in the thick blackness of the room, the boundaries of their half-formed relationship seem blurred. Frank clears his throat, astutely aware of her presence but keen to avoid contact in case he makes her uncomfortable. "Goodnight," he murmurs.

She breaths out a half-laugh of disbelief. "Good morning, more like." She breathes deeply and then mutters, "Goodnight, Frank."

He's excruciatingly tired and, as he shuts his eyes, he knows it won't take long to drift off. But Laurel holds his sleep at bay one more time.

She speaks again, words flat and emotionless in the black. "My dad's always making these business deals buying and selling property. To avoid taxes and detection, he puts some of his deals in my brothers' names – they both work for him – and hides it that way. He wanted to use my name for one. He wanted to invest in a new business venture, he said, but it would look better if a woman was the one buying."

He rolls over slightly and looks towards her but, in the fresh darkness, he can only make out her form, can't see the detail in her face. Still, he forces himself to watch her through the dark and focus on what she's sharing with him, now that she's finally opening up.

"I didn't want to get involved, but he kept on at me about it and I had a look at it." She pauses, hesitates. "I realized he wanted to buy a small cash-based business to launder money, so I said no. I can't study law and be legally responsible for something like that. So he cut me off, told me that either I was a part of his family, or I wasn't." She turns her head in the darkness towards Frank. "So I guess I'm not."

"That's why you do the strippin'?" Frank asks. "You need the money?"

She laughs once. "Like every other girl there, sure. But… it's more than that." Her voice becomes serious again. "Frank, the club is the business my dad was trying to buy. I've been trying to get something on him to make him pay for all the bad things he's done. If I testify to even being in the general neighborhood of that club, he'll know that I'm going up against him. And… he's done some really bad things to his adversaries in the past."

"Right. Okay," Frank says when Laurel leaves a pause, not knowing how else to fill the silence.

"I can't testify."

"I know." He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Did he buy the club in his own name, then?"

"I don't know. I don't even know for sure that he went ahead with it after I refused. I could be wasting my time completely."

Frank shuffles slightly closer, hesitates and then reaches his hand out and finds her bare shoulder, rubs it gently in a pathetic but genuine gesture of comfort. "You won't have to testify, Laurel," he murmurs. "I promise."

"Really?"

"I got your back," he tells her. "For real."

Her skin shivers beneath his touch, but she seems to relax a little, too. "Thank you," she whispers back, and her voice is velvet; sincere and grateful. He leaves his hand on her arm and that's how he's lying when sleep takes him, his arm forming a connection between them that surges strong with electricity, the filament in a lone bulb lighting up their darkness.

He wakes hours later, head throbbing and legs entwined in tangled blankets… and the baby-smooth skin of her calves. He's uncomfortably warm but he quickly surmises that it's because of the body pressed closely against his side.

Frank lifts his head and looks over at his neighbour to assess the situation. His arm is curled around Laurel's shoulders, a gnarled branch holding the nymph in place, and her head is resting partly on his bicep and partly on the pillow, a stray hand cupped on top of his chest. He can't help but smile at the sight of her: mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly, hair mussed and tipped to one side of her face, chest rising and falling deeply with every breath she takes. He watches her face as she inhales, exhales, eyelids twitching with unrest. The groove between her eyebrows doesn't go away even in sleep and Frank aches to make her better, this fearless, broken girl. It's a strange and scarily strong emotion for someone who's only ever been the breaker before, never the fixer. But something about her is holding his often-fleeting attention. Normally, once he's bedded a girl the attraction fades for Frank. But with her… the more he gets, the more he wants. His thirst for her is unquenchable, unthinkable.

Eventually, he feels a little stalkerish watching her sleep, so he looks away, up to the ceiling, tips of his fingers absent-mindedly trailing the skin of her arm. In the half-awake bleariness that accompanies waking, he closes his eyes again and contemplates Laurel's confession from the night before, wonders what horrors she's seen her father commit that make her so plainly petrified at the mere thought of him. He doesn't have long to consider it; the body beside him stirs and contorts and twists, and then: "Frank?"

Unwillingly, his eyes flicker back open and he looks back to her. "Mornin'."

She glances down, takes stock of their cosy new position. "Sorry," she whispers, embarrassedly pulling away from him.

"'s alright." His body misses her warmth immediately. "You want some coffee?"

She nods, rubs her eyes. "Sure."

He gets up, sets a new pot going in the kitchen, checks his phone and finds that it's past midday.

When he returns to the bedroom with two mugs of coffee, Laurel's already vacated the bed and changed back into her own clothes, the ones she came in the night before. A classic walk of shame with none of the fun parts that precede it.

"You leavin'?" he asks, dismayed, but he catches himself and quickly follows up his question with a dashing smirk. "I was kinda hopin' to keep you in my bed all weekend."

She rolls her eyes. "Do you ever think about anything else?"

"Not when you're around." He puts the coffees on his bedside table and walks around the bed to stand in front of her. Her eyes flutter downwards and when they look back up to him, they're dancing, alight with energy, no smoke and mirrors deflecting her desires. He leans down and kisses her, gently, slowly. His kiss tells her they can take it slow, they've got all day and he's going to take his time to really please her; no rushed bathroom stall fucking this time.

"Frank," she moans, tipping her head back. "I should study… And start working on the case before Monday…"

He kisses her neck. "You've been working this case from the inside for weeks now," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the bottom of her throat. "There's nothin' you don't already know." He moves downwards, kissing along her collarbone then kneels and pushes her top up, revealing her stomach, kisses down the skin there.

Another moan filters through her lips. "But Professor Keating gave us a file to read…"

"I'll give you a pop quiz on the case tomorrow. You'll be fine." Frank looks up at her face, watches her watching him, and then he hooks his fingers in the tops of her jeans and tugs gently.

She gasps sharply, breaths quivering on her lips. Her excuses have dried up.

He coaxes her pants down lower and lower, goes down with them until he's face-to-face with her bare, smooth pussy. "No panties?" he asks, voice hoarse.

All Laurel can do is shake her head, the anticipation of the moment almost too much.

Frank brings a hand up between her legs, slips it between her thighs and finds that she's already wet though he's barely even touched her yet. He groans low in his chest and then tugs her roughly closer to him, hands firm on her ass. He looks up at her again and then places a kiss on her bare skin, and then another and another, edging lower and ever-closer to the core of her desire. Eventually, his tongue reaches out, finds her clit and strokes it, long and languid.

Her responding groan is deep and low and her fingers tangle in his hair, pull him in closer, beg him for more but he pushes back against her and pulls away.

Laurel whimpers and opens her mouth to complain but Frank's quicker than she is and he pushes her gently backwards until the backs of her legs find the bed and she realizes what he wants. She sits right on the very edge, and he pulls her pants off her ankles and then spreads her legs and kneels between them, like an atheist finally finding a god worthy of his belief, an alter worthy of his devotion.

"Please," she whispers, and Frank is only too happy to comply. He kisses her inner thigh, strokes around her center with his index finger, and then he stops teasing and brings his lips to her slick folds. He worships her with his mouth, licking and sucking and kissing every last dripping inch of her, and he's never tasted anything so sinful and yet so sweet.

Her hands are on his head, his shoulders, his back; scratching, scraping, skinning him alive but the boundaries between pain and pleasure have long since disappeared and he relishes her rough touch, lets it spur him on. He laps her up, enthusiastically sucking down the juices that drip from her, soaking her thighs and his beard and his bedsheets.

"Oh god, Frank," she whimpers above him, hips rocking against his chin.

He goes in harder, fucking her with his tongue, relishing the sensation of her hot velvet walls reacting to his mouth, twitching and spasming and grasping desperately, longing to be filled. His lips close down around hers, greedily drawing in everything she gives him, pulling her clit into his mouth and tracing shapes with his tongue.

Laurel's groaning and squirming before him, filling the room with needy, reedy whimpers and desperate, deep-throated moans. "Oh… oh _fuck_ , Frank, I… I… fuck, I'm…" She can't string more than a couple of words together but her thighs are tensing and her back is arching and her pussy is tightening like a coil and Frank knows what she's trying to tell him.

He redoubles his efforts, bringing his fingers up to push inside her and reach the spot his tongue can't quite get. He kisses her clit again, and then grazes it with his teeth, biting gently and then licking, kissing it better. His fingers speed up, pushing in and out and then he curls then inside her, finds that rough spot that he knows will get her coming undone – and it does.

She comes forcefully, an explosion of tangy, sweet spray. Her thighs clamp together automatically, trapping him between them as she cries out above him, _ohs_ and moans and obscenities crashing together to form an erotic discord that Frank wants to commit to memory. Her tight cunt walls throb frantically around him as fresh waves of liquid coat his mouth over and over, her release seemingly endless, and he's happy to stay and drink her down forever.

Eventually, though, the tide ebbs and the rhythmic pulses around his digits slow and then let up. Her body seems to relax piece by piece: first, her hands slip from his head; her thighs fall to the side, right then left; her upper body shrinks away as she lies back on the bed.

Frank stands slowly, ignores the stinging in his knees and then lays down beside her sideways on the bed.

She looks over at him with bliss-filled eyes. "I think the case can wait."

He grins and kisses her, his hand finding her ass and feeling her limp, boneless body come back to life when she tastes herself on his lips. She moans into his mouth and he pulls her close, shudders with desire. And, just like that, Frank knows that Laurel won't be doing any studying this weekend.

 **Okay, confession time: this is actually only half of the chapter. The other half is written and partly-edited but it was almost 8,000 words long so I felt I had to cut it because that's a little excessive. So I've changed the chapter count again because I'm an awful person. The good news is that I will post the next chapter as soon as I've finished editing it to make up for keeping you waiting for sooo long for this chapter. Ideally, tomorrow but 100% definitely by Friday, depending how work goes for me this week. So this one was more fluffy, smutty, Flaurel stuff and the next chapter will be seeing the shit hit the fan in so many ways, I genuinely can't wait for you guys to read it!**

 **As always, I LOVE seeing your comments hit my inbox if you've got the time, and I'll see you again in a few days for the drama to kick in big time!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here it is, as promised! A within-a-week update! Enjoy.**

On Monday morning, Frank drops her home early to shower, change and get ready to meet him at Annalise's office in an hour. He kisses her in the car, long and soft and sweet, but the innocent kiss progresses quickly and closed mouths open and it's not long before Laurel is flushed and panting and needy again.

"Go," she whimpers against his lips, kissing him once more before pulling away. She gathers up her bag from the footwell, shoots him one last gaze which somehow manages to be longing and hateful at the same time. "Just… go."

He laughs, smirks at her as she slams the door shut behind her and marches into her building without so much as a backwards glance. Frank shakes his head, adjusts himself and drives on to the Keating house, spending the journey casting her from his mind; he can't afford to be distracted today. To come up with a solution that doesn't involve throwing Laurel to her own personal, bloodthirsty sharks, he needs to be on his A game.

When he arrives, Annalise is in her office and Bonnie is sitting in an armchair browsing casually through a file. She glances up. "Hey. Coffee's on in the kitchen."

"Thanks. You want one?"

"Why else would I put it on?"

He returns moments later, two steaming mugs in hand, one of which he hands off to Bonnie. She puts her file aside and looks up at him. She takes a sip and narrows her eyes over the rim of her mug. "Bitch, please."

"What?" Frank asks, already on the defensive because he knows exactly _what_.

"You screwed her, didn't you?"

He rolls his eyes. "None o' your business."

"Tell me you at least have a plan to get her off?"

Frank smirks. "You sayin' you think I struggle to get a girl off?"

Bonnie doesn't approve. "Oh har har. You know what I mean." She drops the humorous edge to her tone, glances at Annalise's office door and then lowers her voice. "Getting the stripper on the stand is Annalise's only solid plan."

"I talked to her last week; she said we're not goin' down that avenue anymore."

"Well, what else are we going to do?" Bonnie hisses. "Even if the strategy isn't ideal, she'll still go with it if there's no alternative."

Frank frowns, tries to shrug off the sense of impending doom. "Relax, Bon. We got a back-up. I'm going to sort it today."

Her blue eyes swim under a creased, concerned brow and her disapproval is clear in her gaze.

"Jus'… forget all about it, okay?" Frank urges. "Laurel don't know that you know about her, an' it should stay that way."

Bonnie opens her mouth to respond but, at that moment, the door to the office opens and the two of them spring apart when Annalise emerges.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "What you two gossiping about?"

Frank waves her off. "Nothin'. What's up?"

Annalise takes a moment, clearly decides not to push the matter and then moves on to the agenda. "Richard Dryden's trial starts on Wednesday. We've got to get a plan together in the next two days as to how to get his case dismissed. And if either one of you suggests begging the DA for a plea deal, you'll both be fired." She raises a sharp eyebrow between her associates.

"When are the students getting here?" Bonnie asks.

"About ten," Annalise replies. "So we've got a good hour to actually get some work done before their needy asses need mothering." She leans on a desk and sighs. "So aside for an unconfirmed alibi, what have we got?"

"I'm goin' to talk to the bartender at the club tonight, get her to testify that Dryden was at the club that night," Frank supplies, and Bonnie adds: "The wife is prepped and ready to take the stand as a character witness."

"We'll have to meet her at the courthouse in the morning and go through the questions with her again, just in case," Annalise notes.

The blond nods. "Of course."

"Frank? Any other suspects or evidence?"

He reluctantly shakes his head. "Not really. Reed's ex-wife was outta the country and no one else would have the means to access the murder weapon, what with the receipt bein' found in Dryden's car."

Annalise stares straight ahead, eyes bright with thought. "So someone must have either planted the receipt in his car or, coincidentally, purchased the exact same knife in the same week. Can we check sales of the murder weapon? If there was a significant number or a sale on, we could persuade the jury it's a coincidence."

Frank nods. "On it."

"And who would have access to Dryden's car to plant evidence there?"

"Anyone who works or lives with 'im. Or anyone who could jimmy open the door which, judgin' by the model, wouldn't be that hard."

"The wife?" Annalise looks to Bonnie.

The blond frowns. "That's a bit of a reach. Why would she kill Reed?"

Annalise simply raises her eyebrows. "Men are annoying," she remarks in a casual tone. "Nothing would surprise me in this business anymore." She stands and rubs her hands down her skirt. "Please find something I can actually use," she says before disappearing back into her office.

Bonnie raises an eyebrow at Frank. "Told you we needed a plan."

When the first of the new Keating Five start to arrive, Frank's still gathering data on kitchen knife purchases in the state of Pennsylvania in the week before Reed's murder. He pauses his work long enough to find the file from the prosecution on Dryden's case and dump it on the desk. "The murder book," he tells the prom queen and the gay guy with neatly gelled hair, predictably the most eager of the students. "Given to us by the prosecution with all the evidence they've gathered for Dryden's case. Go through it and see if you can find any holes to help get our guy a 'not guilty'." The girl grabs up the book enthusiastically and the boy picks up some other files.

Suddenly, Frank's almost glad for the help. This case has been feeling so hopeless that he wonders if it might actually be more useful than not to get an outsider's fresh perspective on the messy web of lies that is Dryden's case.

Laurel steps up to the desk, doesn't quite meet his eye. He wordlessly hands her some papers on Dryden, though he's sure she won't read anything she doesn't already know, and she follows her peers to the living room. Frank has to force himself not to watch her ass as she goes.

He resumes his investigative work, half an ear on the kids' discussions.

"…receipt for the murder weapon was in his car. What kind of an idiot leaves that shit lying around?"

"Exactly. He must have been framed…"

"Are we sure he's not guilty? I mean, he's got means, motive and opportunity…"

"It doesn't matter-"

"He's not guilty. He has an alibi."

"He does?"

"Here." Paper rustles as a file is passed around.

"A strip club?"

"Wahey, the dude knows how to have a good time, am I right?"

"Gross."

"Asher."

"What? I'm just sayin-"

"But the alibi's not confirmed?"

"Why not? That's like, criminal law basics?"

Frank grinds his teeth. "Workin' on it," he calls across the room, allowing most of his frustration to leak into his tone and he frightens them into silence for a few moments before the yammering continues. He tunes it out, finding their whiny voices too annoying, until-

"Yo, Frank?"

He sighs and turns away from the computer, gets up and joins them in the living room. "What?"

"About the alibi." It's the rich, white kid. Judge Millstone's son.

"What about it?"

"Can't we confirm it with CCTV?" he suggests, swagger in his tone, clearly feeling like he's cracked the case in two minutes flat. "Just check the camera footage and show the judge when he arrived and when he left and then that'll prove that he wasn't stabbing anybody." He stands abruptly, slaps his hand to his chest. "Boom! Not guilty, Judge, I move to free this man immediately!"

Frank glares slightly. "Gee, thanks, we didn't think of that." He lowers his voice to mutter, "Doucheface," and then goes back to the desk, allowing one of the kids to waste their breath explaining why his idea is impossible.

Prom Queen jumps to it; any opportunity to show off. "Most CCTV is only kept for thirty days because of data protection laws, Asher."

"So?"

The kid off the wait list picks it up, providing a more comprehensive answer than his peer. "So Mr Dryden didn't reveal his alibi until more than that amount of time had passed so footage from that night would have been deleted automatically anyway."

"Oh." A pause. "Well, have they checked for sure? Maybe they have special cameras at the strip club…"

"I'm sure they've looked into it, Asher…"

Though he's pleased to hear Laurel defend them, Frank groans, exasperated, and gets up again to go to the kitchen, pretending to be in search of a second coffee.

Bonnie's leaning against a countertop, sipping on a glass of water. "You get sick of them already, too?"

Frank just comes to stand beside her. "Days like this I wish Pennsylvania would just make idiocy a criminal offence already."

"I wish I could drink on the job."

"I'd drink to that."

They stand and enjoy the silence for a few minutes and then Bonnie sighs and reluctantly straightens back up. "Come on," she says. "We've got a job to do."

At his desk a short while later, Frank pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and fires off a covert text: _You comin' over again tonight? I was thinking of getting a takeaway but I'm more in the mood for eating out ;)_

Then, he watches across the room as she opens up the message and blushes furiously, mashing her lips into a line and shuffling to press her thighs together.

Moments later, his cell buzzes: _That pun is so overused. Try harder._

He doesn't hesitate, thumbs flying across the keys. _Judging by the way your legs are squeezed together, I'd bet that your panties are already wet at the thought of me. Kissing you slow, deep, my tongue running down your neck, chest, stomach, all the way til I'm under that skirt, my fingers sliding inside your panties…_

He fires off the message and then watches. Frustratingly, though her cell lights up beside her, Laurel studiously ignores it for a while. He tries to resume his work, but all he's succeeded in is winding himself up and now he's at half-mast and uncomfortable.

He stares blankly at the screen before him and jumps when his cell buzzes in his pocket. He stares for a moment longer, pretending to be engrossed (so that he doesn't look too eager), and then fishes it out.

 _Meet me in the bathroom and you can find out how wet my panties are._

For a moment, his breath stops. Then, he watches as Laurel excuses herself from the group. He waits an appropriate amount of time before ducking out, too. She opens the door as soon as he knocks, grabbing his tie and tugging him gently inside. Then, she shoves him roughly backwards, her hands come to his face, his beard, his hair as she kisses him hungrily.

Frank's hand drops straight to her skirt, wanting to find the aforementioned panties, but when his hand slides up the inside of her thigh, he's surprised to find no barrier to her wet folds. He groans into her mouth and feels Laurel smirk against his lips.

"No panties?" he murmurs.

"Surprise," she mumbles back, moaning as he enters her with two fingers, pushing in straight up to the knuckle until he's buried inside of her. He can tell it's not going to take long for either of them, so he fingers her just enough to set her building but then quickly withdraws to wrestle with his belt. He pushes her roughly to the sink, forces her up so that her ass is resting on the cool porcelain, skirt mussed around her hips, legs splayed.

His pants are down and he's lining himself up within seconds, feeling her leak over his tip in a way that's delicious; warm and inviting.

"Quick," she mutters. "Before they notice."

He slams into her and her head falls backwards. "Ohhh," she moans quietly, long and deep.

A grunt falls from Frank's lips as he pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back in, feels her quiver and suction around him. He starts to set a pace, pistoning in and out of her in a punishing rhythm, the thrusts fast and hard and insistent. Laurels nails scrape at the nape of his neck, clawing and ravenous. It's rough, this time, basic instinct taking over as he uses her body, every thrust claiming it as his. Every pulse tells him that she's his, every whimper shows him he's in control, every delicate throb of her cunt draws him in deeper and lures him further into her world.

Eventually she starts to tremble, a leaf in a hurricane, and her hips twist back up to him, meet him. "Harder," she whispers. "Harder. Fuck me. Please."

He pushes himself, picks up the pace until the sound of flesh slipping and slapping against flesh becomes a rapid, staccato drumbeat.

Her reedy whines become louder. "Oh… oh… _oh… god_. F-Frank, fuck, yes, right there…"

"Laurel…" His thighs are tightening, straining as he tries to hold back but her slick warmth and the steady, swift rhythm are a torturous level of hot and he's struggling. "You gotta come."

"Oh…" Another breathy sigh. "I will," she mutters blissfully. "Tell me how close you are."

"So close, Laurel," he mutters. "So goddamn close, I'm gonna come so hard…"

She falls, cunt fluttering around him as her eyes squeeze tightly shut. She moans like a siren, pitchy and rising, falling, and Frank is almost done in but, just in the nick of time, Laurel gets her wits back and she pushes him gently, forces him to slide out so that she can take him firmly in her hand and pump his cock, her own juices slick and warm in her palm.

"Ugh," he groans. "Laurel-" But that's all he gets out before his own shuddering moan cuts him off as he comes, streams shooting from his cock and onto her thigh. She strokes him through it, jerky movements in all the right places, his thick cock twitching under her careful fingers.

They pant together for a moment as they come down, sticky becoming dry on Laurel's bare legs. Eventually she holds her hand out and Frank reaches over, grabs some toilet paper. Instead of handing it to her, he gently cleans her up, wipes the evidence of their short tryst off of her thigh. He pauses, looks her in the eye and recognizes how tender the gesture seems in this close proximity. So he hands off the tissue to her and steps away, sorts his clothes out. He clears his throat. "I'll see you later, then?"

She smirks, shrugs. "Maybe."

"Just maybe?"

"Just maybe," she confirms cryptically and then she slides the lock across and slips out of the room, leaving Frank to consider what she means by that.

Back downstairs, the Keating Five haven't come up with much that Frank, Bonnie and Annalise haven't already explored, and, luckily, they haven't noticed Frank and Laurel's mysterious co-disappearance. Also fortunate is the fact that Bonnie is nowhere to be found so she can't give him that knowing expression, shame him with one quirk of an eyebrow.

Frank, now fully sated, turns his attention back to his research and finds that relatively low numbers of the murder weapon were purchased in the weeks leading up to the murder, which is the opposite of helpful. The fewer knives were purchased, the weaker the argument that the receipt is a coincidence.

Basically, Frank thinks, the bartender at the strip club really has to pay off for this case to get off the ground.

As night draws in and boredom glazes the students' eyes where they sit, knee-deep in discovery and Chinese cartons, Frank stands and collects his things into a briefcase. He sticks his head in Annalise's office. "I'm heading to the club; bartender starts her shift in half an hour."

Annalise looks up from the paper she's reading. "Okay. Let me know what you get."

"Will do." He leaves her to it, mumbles a 'goodnight' to Bonnie and catches Laurel's eye on his way out, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge the students. He makes the now-familiar drive along Castor Avenue and parks in an adjacent street and then heads across to the non-descript building.

As soon as he pushes the door open, a grating female voice greets him shrilly from the other side of the door. "Honey, we're not open yet!" The woman comes to the door to get him to leave, and then eyes him up and down, slowly. Her voice softens to a purr. "But come back in an hour and I'll be sure to show you some sugar."

"I'm not 'ere for that," Frank tells her. "I've come to see Holly. She's expectin' me."

The girl's eyes narrow slightly. "She is?"

"Yep."

She hesitates, looks him up and down again, but now she's suspicious. "Wait here." She disappears behind the bar and into the back.

Frank takes a moment to look around the club, look for the boss. After what Laurel said last night about her father trying to buy the place, he's curious about the man he's been calling an ally for a few years now. Parks has always helped him when he needed information about people that came calling to these places, has always known the darker side of Philly when Frank needed something, and that knowledge somehow feels more sinister now. Has Parks always been connected to the kind of crime Laurel hinted at? Frank's not a naïve guy; most of the people he knows have their fingers in several illegal pies, but this kind of corruption seems different. He supposes that he's never known rich crime in the same way he's known desperate crime, the kind that the back-streets of Fishtown thrive upon. He knows it exists, has seen it in so many of Annalise's clients, but he's never been under the thumb of that kind of wealth and power, has always been his own operative. But maybe Parks has been doing someone else's dirty deeds all along.

"She's in the back." The girl is back again, and her now-disgruntled voice snaps Frank out of his musings, pulls his attention back to the present task.

"Thanks." He steps behind the bar and heads through to the kitchen.

The bartender – Holly, Laurel had told him – is alone in there, unstacking clean glasses from the dishwasher. She looks up when he comes in, vibrant red hair parting across her face like curtains. "So you're Kevin?"

Frank blinks for a moment, before remembering his own alias and then nods. "Yeah."

"Mr Parks told us not to talk to you."

This is news to Frank. "He did?"

"Yeah. But he's not here tonight so I'll tell you what I can. Lola said you can be trusted."

"She's right."

"Well… what do you want to know? You're here about the dead guy… it's Reed, right?" She's got a slight southern twang to her accent, certainly not local, and Frank wonders at her story, whether it's as twisted as Laurel's.

Frank leans against a countertop and crosses his arms. "Yeah. Well. I'm here about the guy accused of killin' him: Mr Richard Dryden – he's a regular customer here?"

"He came in from time-to-time. Not as often as his friend, but yeah. Regular enough to have a tab."

"Right. And you were working on the night of the 2nd of July?"

The girl stares at him for a moment. "Look, mister. Honest truth is I have no idea if I was working that night. I work most nights but they all blend into one. Cut to the chase and tell me exactly what it is you want, and I'll tell you if I'll help."

"Fine. On the night that Edward Reed was murdered, Richard Dryden was here with Lola. For… her own reasons, she can't testify to that fact in court, so his alibi is unconfirmed, and, without it, he looks like he's gonna get convicted for a murder he didn't commit."

"So talk to Lola."

"I have – trust me, that ain't gonna happen. We need you to confirm that you saw him at the club. Ideally, we need the time he got here and the time he left."

She smirks. "So, like, you want me to be his alibi instead of Lola?"

"Yes."

"Won't the judge, like, want Lola instead? She spent the evening with him after all."

"Sure, but we can't get hold of her." Frank shoots her a level stare, dares her to argue.

"Seems pretty suspicious to me."

Frank sighs, makes his face bored, hides his desperation behind an eye roll and a glance at his watch. "Well, are you in or out? Will you do it or not?"

She thinks for a moment. "Will you pay me?"

"That's illegal. But I'll buy a drink and I tip very well. Unrelated, o' course."

"Of course. I want eight hundred bucks."

Frank scoffs. "Two, tops."

"Six."

"Three."

"C'mon, you can do better than that. Lola said you're a good guy."

"Look, my hands are tied. I don't have a budget because this shit ain't legal. Three hundred an' that's it."

Holly snorts but doesn't fight. She stares at the countertop for a moment. "Fine. I'll do it for three hundred." She bends down, picks up another glass and stacks it on her tray. "It's a shame, really, that they killed Reed."

"Why, you don't wanna testify?"

She laughs. "No. Three hundred wasn't even a tenth of Reed's tab. He owed us big time and now I won't see a dime of that cash."

Frank frowns at her. "I thought he was a regular customer here?"

"Yeah, he was. Regular enough in the start to earn a tab. And then he'd come in, like, six days a week, get wasted and screw whoever would take him. He was a mess."

"An' he never paid for your… services?"

"Nah. Parks was getting, like, super mad at him, too. They got in a shouting fit when Reed showed up in a new car and he owed us thousands of dollars."

Frank's brain starts to whir, latches onto the first glaring inconsistency he's come across in the case. "Huh," is all he says out loud. "Well, thanks, Holly. I'll speak to my boss and get back to you, okay?"

"Sure. If you can raise it to six, I'll cry on the stand and say what a nice man your guy was." She smiles sweetly, garish pink lip gloss shining under the harsh kitchen lights.

"Don't push it," Frank tells her, and then he leaves. He heads out of the kitchen, breezes past the girl at the door who flirts with him on his way out but all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. He reaches his car and flings open his briefcase, searching through until he finds the scrap of paper Laurel had brought him.

 _Edward Reed_

 _Gold standard – regular client since August 2013._

 _Amount outstanding: $0._

 _215-528-7352_

His eyes zero in on the line: _Amount outstanding: $0._

His pulse roars as he remembers the time he and Annalise visited the strip club. Parks, shifty under Annalise's intense gaze, had told them what a valued customer Reed was, "a damn good tipper", he'd said.

Frank's mind races as things slot into place in his mind. Reed owed thousands of dollars and there was someone out there who wanted to plow thousands of dollars covertly into the business. Perhaps Jorge Castillo _had_ bought the club and had been using Reed as cover to launder his dirty money. But… then how had Reed ended up dead? Had he gotten too close to the cover up, threatened to out Jorge? But surely if he was an employee, he'd have been benefitting from the deal?

Suddenly, ice runs through Frank's veins.

Reed had slept with Lola less than a week before he died.

If he'd have recognized her as Laurel Castillo, surely he'd have told Jorge that his daughter was posing as a stripper in his club? Unless… Unless someone had killed him before he'd have the chance to pass on that particular piece of information. Someone who didn't want Jorge to know that his daughter was working against him.

Someone like Laurel.

Frank's cell phone rings and it takes a few moments for him to remember how to move – hell, how to breathe – before he can answer it. "What?" he snaps into the cell.

"Frank-" Bonnie's voice comes back and she sounds almost as hollow as he does. "Frank, she knows. Annalise knows about Lola… Laurel. She's going to use it to force her testimony."

 **So sorry for the terrible cliffhanger! My aim is to get this finished before the new season starts but that's going to be a tight deadline because of how crazy my life is right now. Next chapter probably will be posted in around 10 days so keep an eye out. And if you have any comments or theories you have about where this is going, you know I'd love to hear it in the comments or my ask box is always open on tumblr.**

 **Until next time!**


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